


Enemies to Lovers

by Caramelized



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant, Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M, Halamshiral, Haven, Slow Burn, Subverted, Vive la Revolution, Yearning longing pining, damage and baggage, happy ending guaranteed, have we all forgotten that Inquisition is a dirty word, more and more canon divergence, now with smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 76
Words: 156,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4110865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caramelized/pseuds/Caramelized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kit is a rebel mage. She hates the Chantry and everything it stands for. So, no. She's not joining the Inquisition. </p>
<p>Why would she? To "restore order"? What does that mean, except "get all you mages back in a Circle"? She'll pass. Besides, Kit already has a mission and she's not letting go of it: free the mages, for good.</p>
<p>If only the Inquisition's ex-Templar Commander weren't keeping such a close eye on her...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Trust Authority

Growing up in a Circle had taught Kit many valuable life lessons. Almost all of them seemed applicable to the unfamiliar experience of waking up in a dungeon, manacled to the floor. 

For example: Never trust authority. The friendly jailor/angry jailor duet that her two captors performed didn't fool her in the slightest. Templars knew that trick too, and she hadn't fallen for it in years. Plus, she recognized the Right and Left Hands of the Divine. Two zealots with more blood on their hands than any mage Kit had ever met--and both of them convinced that _she_ was the murderer. 

Whatever. The Chantry had never been a hotbed of self-awareness. 

They unchained her, dragged her into the light, and--her bowels turned to water. The sky had a hole in it. Two worlds meeting in a great swirling churn, and the glowing gash in her hand throbbed in time with it. 

"Each time the Breach expands, your Mark spreads. And it is killing you," explained Seeker Cassandra, dropping onto one knee. "It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time." 

Nothing at all suspicious about rushing a powerless prisoner into an important decision. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Don't think too hard about the task ahead. As though she were a cow being led to slaughter and wouldn't know what was about to happen if she couldn't see the axe. 

Kit had been sacrificing herself for the greater good ever since her magic manifested--she'd given up her family, her freedom, her ambitions, her privacy, _the list went on_ \--and she'd long since soured on martyrdom. This, though. Even she could see this was a special case. 

"Let's go," said Kit. 

Cassandra marched her through Haven and started to explain about how everyone was so sad about the Divine being dead and that's why they all blamed Kit--as though _that_ made any blighted sense. Grief made people irrational, it didn't give them guilt-detecting superpowers. How many of them had actually _met_ the Divine? None? But they still needed blood to feel better. 

"Save it," snapped Kit. She didn't want to spend her last moments on Thedas worrying about what other people thought of her. She didn't want to be dirty, either, or surrounded by strangers, or shaking with cold, or... A glob of green Fade energy hit the bridge they were crossing and Kit tumbled onto the ice, rolling away from falling rock and debris.

A demon surged up from the frozen lake and Cassandra charged at it, shouting--unnecessarily, as it happened--"Stay behind me!"

Not only did Kit stay back, she skittered away with unabashed cowardice. But then another demon appeared--from nowhere--and avoidance was no longer an option. With a sharp, frightened cry Kit snatched up a staff from a broken crate of supplies and threw a bolt of ice at the creature. She took a step away and sent another blast at it, keeping the demon frozen while she gained some distance. Just as she started to gather her mana for a stronger spell Cassandra intervened, finishing the creature off and then turning on Kit. 

"Drop your weapon!" 

Kit's staff landed on the ice with a ringing clatter. 

Cassandra frowned. "No. Pick it up. I cannot protect you." 

Great. Just what she wanted to hear. 

Kit picked up the staff and trotted along in Cassandra's wake. They encountered a few more demons, which, again, was not how Kit wanted to be spending her last moments. As ever, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. She had her first real surprise when they ran into a crossbow-wielding dwarf and a shabbily dressed elf mage battling demons around a small rift. A baby rift, though it spewed forth demons just like a grown-up. 

The elf mage seized hold of Kit's hand, pointed it at the knot of sickly green energy--and it vanished. 

Kit's heart sank. That was it. She was really and truly doomed. She'd been hoping that the test encounter would fail. If she'd had even the slightest excuse, she'd have run. Left someone else to take the role of sacrificial lamb. But if she could close the baby Rift, then the Mark on her hand might truly be the key to closing the bigger one. 

A sob welled up from her chest. She'd never gone swimming in the ocean. She'd never seen the White Spire, never had sex in a bed or invented a new spell or worn a dress of Orlesian silk...

"Are you all right?" asked the elf. "You seem confused." 

Kit scowled. 

"Varric Tethras," said the dwarf, tugging his embroidered cuffs. He was blond and beardless and didn't appear to be wearing a shirt. "Rogue, storyteller, and occasional tagalong." 

"Tagalong?" Kit asked. "You mean you're here _by choice_?"

"He was just leaving," Cassandra said.

"Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?" Varric swaggered over-- _swaggered_ \--completely unfazed by the Seeker's hostility. "Your soldiers aren't in control anymore. You need me." 

"So you're, like, a do-gooder?" Kit asked, confused by the laughter this question provoked.

"Who, me?" Varric clapped his hand over his heart and half-bowed, the picture of humility. "I just like being where the action is. That's where all the good stories start."

"Oh, I see. You have a death wish," said Kit. 

Varric winced. 

"I am Solas," interrupted the elf. "I'm pleased to see you still live."

Kit bit her tongue on a reply. Apparently imminent death had robbed her of her manners.

"He means, I kept that mark from killing you while you slept," explained Varric, rallying. 

"Unlike you, Solas is an apostate," Cassandra added. 

"An apostate?" Kit repeated. "Here?" 

"Technically, all mages are now apostates." Solas spoke at a stately pace in the world's most soothing voice, which made him sound almost reasonable. As though if all mages were _technically_ apostates, he had every reason to be at the absolute bloody _epicenter_ of Chantry authority. 

What was wrong with these people? 

"I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach," Solas continued. "If it is not closed, we are all doomed. Regardless of origin." 

Ah. So _he_ was the do-gooder. Kit sighed. "Might as well get on with it, then." 

Their next stop involved an angry cleric, who apparently wanted Kit to be executed instead of sacrificed. Ah, bureaucrats. Always quibbling over trifles. Kit cut short the conversation by barreling ahead. Delays just gave her more time to think about all the things she'd be missing, or imagine all the different ways that dying would hurt. 

She marched straight into another rift. Dead soldiers sprawled amidst the demons and one of the few men left standing, imposing enough to carry off the fur mantle he wore draped around his shoulders, helped finish off the demons before congratulating Seeker Cassandra on closing the rift. 

"Do not congratulate me, Commander," returned Cassandra. "This is the prisoner's doing." 

Kit shifted uncomfortably. The Seeker seemed almost... decent. Since they'd left the dungeon, she'd made one concession after another--because she chose to, not because she had to--and now she passed the credit along instead of claiming it for herself. 

That didn't change anything. The truly good and noble people in the Chantry provided cover for the evil ones. They kept the whole corrupt system going, and that meant they were part of the problem. 

"I hope they're right about you," said the Commander. He was an uncommonly handsome man, tall and blond with light brown eyes that ought to have been warm, but... weren't. "We've lost a lot of people getting you here." 

"That's right. _You're_ in charge, but _I'm_ the one who should feel guilty." Kit took a step forward, ready to keep moving, but an electric tingle along her skin brought her to a quick halt. 

The Commander was a Templar. 

His eyes narrowed. He'd sensed her magic just as she sensed the lyrium in his blood, a mutual and simultaneous recognition. Usually she didn't have to get so close. The Commander's hand twitched toward the pommel of his sword, and Kit hurried on. This place... she should never have come. Even with almost everyone at the Conclave dead, it was jam-packed with enemies. 

She didn't mind seeing the ruin of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She'd been helping the Libertarian mages pass food and supplies to Anders ever since he blew up the Chantry in Kirkwall. But the charred bodies. The blood-red lyrium. And the Rift, leaking enough magic to make her hair float and her blood sizzle. 

People spoke, but she didn't listen. The Rift was deafening--so much energy. Her heart beat faster and faster, thudding in her ears. This was it. She was the least heroic person on the face of the earth, and this was how she was going to die. At least she had a fine sense of irony, so she could appreciate it. 

She raised her hand. A rope of sickly green magic shot forth, connected to the Rift, and the feedback sent Kit to her knees. She'd never felt so small. She could hardly comprehend the power flooding through her, let alone contain it. _This is what it's like to be a god_ , Kit thought. _No wonder they're all insane._

A massive demon stepped out from the Rift, wielding lightning like whips. Kit flinched, severing the thread, and losing the connection hurt almost as much as making it. She stumbled about drunkenly, dodging Varric's bolts and Solas's spells, feeling oddly empty. Like her mind--her personality--had been burnt to a crisp. 

She reached for the Rift again and sank into the connection this time. _This is going to kill you,_ she reminded herself, but death seemed like such an abstract concept. She was energy. Energy was eternal. Even in this world, the material world, she would continue to evolve. Soon heat from her pyre would lift her ashes into the air, and she would ride the wind to all four corners of the earth.


	2. Tell Them What They Want To Hear

She was almost disappointed to wake up in her own body. No, scratch that: she _was_ disappointed. No uncertainty. The second she'd touched the Breach, she'd wanted it to swallow her whole. 

Sealing the Breach had been the absolute highlight of her life. Nothing else even compared. She'd never _felt_ so many things at once. 

A squeak brought her back to the present. She was lying in a bed, in a cabin, with a frightened elf. And apparently she was supposed to go meet Seeker Cassandra. At the Chantry. 

Like that was going to happen. 

Kit peeked out the window. She'd take in the lay of the land and then sneak away, over the horizon before anyone caught wind. Except... apparently the entire village of Haven had gathered in front of her cabin and they were all _staring_ at the door. 

What the fuck? 

Okay. She'd play along for a little while longer. She donned the clothes that the elf had dropped on the floor and stepped right into that crowd of... of what? They were attentive, that was for sure. And they kept calling her a Herald.

Of Andraste. 

_Oh._

Once again, her years in the Circle supplied her with the tools to get by. She remained calm and composed. She didn't meet any eyes, but she didn't hurry, either. And she especially did not tell anyone that, as far as she was concerned, Andraste could go suck on a lemon. 

Once inside the Chantry, she followed the sound of yelling to a door on the farthest wall. It was the cleric from the bridge, still going on about having her killed. If only this weren't so familiar.

Kit schooled her face to meekness and stepped inside. 

The cleric wanted her dead. Cassandra thought she was too useful to kill. Someone murdered the Divine--and the Left Hand would hunt that criminal down, yes indeed. Threats, bloodlust, power struggles. Ho hum. Just another day at the Chantry. Business as usual.

Until Cassandra slammed a great whopping book on the table and declared _the Inquisition reborn._ What?

The cleric stormed out. And then the Left and Right Hands of the Divine _tried to win her over._ Two of the actual most important people in the world--who had clapped literal chains around her after she'd spent most of her life wearing _figurative_ chains, thanks to the organization they represented--wanted her _approval._ They needed her, she needed them. Together they'd bring peace and restore order and then, who knows, join hands and sing a nice song together. 

Kit was so, so proud of herself for keeping a straight face. She came really close to laughing a few times. And then, because one of the most important lessons she'd ever learned in the Circle was _tell them what they want to hear_ , she promised to join them.

She did not say for _how long_. If they'd asked, she would have lied. But the honest answer would have been: for a few hours.

Then she got the grand tour, which mostly involved meeting the ambassador, Josephine, and being re-introduced to the Commander. Whose name, she learned, was Cullen. 

"Of Kirkwall?" Kit blurted, and then silently cursed herself. They did not need to know how closely she'd been following events in Kirkwall. 

"I served in Kirkwall until very recently," Cullen admitted. 

At least he seemed embarrassed about it. 

"Have you ever been to Kirkwall?" Leliana asked, in her gentle tinkling voice. "According to our records, you came from the Circle in Ostwick."

Kit tried to smile. "That's right, Ostwick. I've traveled a little, more than most mages, but never to Kirkwall." 

"We should talk about our next step," said Cassandra. "The Breach is stable for now, but we need to close it entirely. That means we need power--the same amount of power that it took to _make_ the Breach. The rebel mages have gathered in Redcliffe..." 

Kit suppressed a shudder. There was a reason she hadn't gone to Redcliffe, and that reason was Fiona. Fiona had been one of Kit's idols... until they finally met. Once upon a time, Fiona must have been amazing. Now? She was just broken. 

"I still think we should approach the Templars," interjected Cullen, because _of course._ A Templar's answer to any problem was always more Templars. Can't find a runaway mage? More Templars! Can't finish that keg? More Templars! Can't close the gigantic hole in the sky? 

Ugh. 

Kit worried that they might actually _ask her opinion_ , but luckily that never happened. Instead, Josephine tabled the issue and suggested a visit to the Hinterlands instead. To meet with a Grand Cleric. 

"I can't wait," said Kit. _To get out of here,_ she meant. If the Inquisition needed to grow, they could do it without her. 

By the time the meeting had ended, the sun had set. The crowds had dispersed. Light spilled from the windows of the few permanent structures and canvas tents glowed like lampshades. Trees groaned under the weight of the snow piled on their branches; the noise of the tavern reached her even from the other side of the village, just a faint merry rumble of voices. 

"I left the Templars," said Cullen, coming up beside her. "Perhaps, if you'd like to talk about Kirkwall--it is not my goal to recreate that environment."

Kit glanced at him sidelong. There was something gentle about his voice, almost pleading, but his posture was stiff and he stared straight ahead. Someone had put him up to this. She'd spent the past few hours cooped up with a diplomat and a spymaster. No doubt they'd learned a great deal more than she felt comfortable revealing. 

"No one leaves the Templars," said Kit. 

"I--" His mouth shut with a sharp click of teeth. "I don't expect you to take me at my word. Only time will tell. Please know that I understand your reservations and that my offer to talk will not expire." 

Kit framed the questions in her mind. _How many mages did you kill before you started wondering if maybe Kirkwall wasn't a_ model environment _? How many did you kill after you knew it for certain? How many did you make Tranquil? What were their transgressions?_ It would be interesting to hear a Templar give an honest accounting. It would never happen--she could just _imagine_ his outrage if she tried asking those questions--but it was a nice thought.

"I appreciate the offer," said Kit. "Enjoy your evening."

She returned to her little hut. She paced back and forth for a few hours, until everyone who had the right to a good night's sleep had crawled into their bedrolls. Then she slipped round the back and used a fire spell to burn a hole in the wooden palisade. Hiding her tracks in the snow would be difficult, so her first stop had to be safer terrain. Bare rocky outcroppings where her passing wouldn't leave a trail. 

That probably meant climbing higher instead of descending, but so be it. She breathed a warmth spell and skirted the lake, leaving Haven behind for good.


	3. Mages aren't people like you and me.

Cullen sat in a corner of the War Room and massaged his temples while Cassandra and Leliana argued. The Herald's disappearance had shocked them--Cassandra had even suspected foul play, at first--but not him. He'd lived in Circles, he knew her type. Cautious, clever, and so steeped in hatred he was surprised it didn't ooze out of every pore when she sweated. 

Mages like Kit were dangerous because they'd mastered the appearance of obedience while dedicating their lives to undermining the Circles. Most of them were caught eventually, but the harm they could do in the meanwhile...

"Let her go," he said wearily. "Bring her back by force and she will only sow poison among us. The Inquisition won't survive it." 

"We must close the Breach," Cassandra objected. "This is not a choice. It is a necessity." 

"The Commander might be right." Leliana tapped her index finger to her chin. How old was she? Forty almost? And she'd lived enough for someone twice her age, but her face was smooth and unlined as a porcelain doll's. "Let her discover that she needs us. Noble born, then confined to a Circle--she won't last long on her own. The world is a dangerous place right now."

"And if she dies?" Cassandra barked. "What then?" 

"Good question." Cullen stood, crossed to the door, and told one of the guards stationed outside to fetch Solas. "If there's another way, that should be our first choice." 

The apostate arrived a few minutes later, hatless despite the cold and swaddled in layers of undyed cloth. He eased the door shut and surveyed the room. "So it's true? Katherine Trevelyan is gone?" 

Cassandra clasped her hands at the small of her back and stood a little straighter. "It is true." 

"You understand the Breach better than any of us," Cullen said. "Can we close it without her?"

"No," Solas answered without hesitation.

"You say the Breach is stable," said Cassandra. "But for how long? What would threaten that stability--and can we prepare for it?" 

"Only strong magic could open the Breach again," Solas replied. "There are steps that we can take to strengthen the Veil that would make the task harder, should anyone care to attempt it. I am thinking of certain elven artifacts, ancient, built while our civilization still thrived. But they will not be easy to find, and only a mage of some skill would be able to activate them." 

"Then we will seek out these artifacts," declared Cassandra. "You have the skill. I will accompany you. Prepare a map for me by this evening, and we will leave in the morning." 

"Decisive as always, Lady Seeker." Solas bowed shallowly. "I shall do as you say. The nearest is in the Hinterlands; we will start there." 

"One more question, Solas," said Leliana. "If the Herald were to die, what would happen to her Mark?" 

The long pause that followed this question only made it sound worse.

"I do not know." Something in Solas's expression--perhaps its sheer, unflinching directness, so unusual in an elf--suggested that he found the question, or the person who asked it, distasteful. "The magic would dissipate, but the Mark is a key as well as a source. I do not believe her severed hand would survive the use you might put it to, if that's what you're wondering. Even a necromancer would not be able to adequately preserve it." 

"We have to consider every possibility. Even the worst." Cullen laughed humorlessly. " _Especially_ the worst. If we cannot find her..." 

"But you intend to look?" Solas asked.

Cullen fell silent. He was not surprised when neither of his companions spoke up, either. It was an ugly business, everything he'd hoped to leave behind: hunting a mage, binding her to a cause against her will. Circles were necessary, but they were necessary _evils_ and he'd spent enough of his life shoring them up. 

"This Inquisition has given you the freedom to act," said Solas. "So _act._ She cannot close the Breach without the resources you can command, and you cannot close it without her. Put aside your petty disputes--" 

" _We_ are here, Solas," Cullen interrupted. " _She_ has run."

"And what might you have said, what could you have done, to frighten her away?" Solas cut himself short. He restrained himself with a faint rearing motion, almost like a horse in harness. Testing invisible bonds and giving in to their power. 

"The clothes she wore yesterday have not been laundered, and she picked up a few cuts and scrapes on her way up the mountain," said Leliana. "There's dried blood on the cloth. Could we make a phylactery?" 

This time there was no mistaking Solas's expression. Absolute loathing. 

"My scouts lost her trail less than a mile away from Haven," said Leliana. "Do you have another suggestion?" 

"No." Solas bit out the word. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I will make a phylactery for you."

Underneath that mild-mannered exterior, Solas was like any other mage. Angry and proud. Just once, Cullen thought, he'd like to be surprised. He doubted he'd live long enough.

"Cullen?" Leliana prompted. 

One word, but Cullen understood immediately.

Before he'd stopped taking lyrium, he'd asked the Tranquil who worked in the Kirkwall dispensary about the process. The Tranquil didn't ask why he wanted to know, didn't try to frighten him or encourage him. She told him everything she knew and left him to decide how he felt. So he knew that lyrium didn't just affect his mind or his mana. It was in his blood, his tissue, his bone, his _hair._ He pissed lyrium. It flaked away with his nail clippings. And it would be years before it passed out of his body entirely. 

"I can find her with it," he said, every bit as grudging as Solas. "If that's everything?"

A round of relieved nods.

"Then to work."


	4. Hunter and Hunted

It was amazing how much different she felt, once she'd put some distance between herself and the Inquisition. Like Circle Kit was her bitchy twin sister, someone she loved dearly but did not want to live next door to. Apostate Kit was fun-loving and laid back, even when tromping through the Frostback Mountains.

Thanks to her magic she was never cold, and thanks to her family she could hunt--because nothing said _noble_ like killing innocent creatures for sport--but everything took so much _effort_. Between all the time she spent looking for food and shelter, there were hardly any hours left in the day for the important business of fleeing.

Plus, she'd never been so free to explore. The war must be raging in the lowlands, where weather was warmer and the Breach farther away, but the mountains were deserted and quite peaceful. When she saw an ice cave, she filled her cupped hands with Veilfire and stepped inside. If she passed a thermal pool, she stopped to bathe. And when she saw a Rift, one of the small ones, she closed it.

Carefully, of course. Skirting around the rip in the Fade at a safe distance, picking off the wraiths with a few well-aimed fireballs before darting in with cold magic for the more substantial demons. She'd never done much fighting--Templars tended to interpret all aggression as a threat, and they dispensed punishments accordingly--but it was exhilarating.

And she could feel the echo of the Breach in it. A taste of that overwhelming, possessive force.

She knelt in the snow and touched her fingers to the faint residue the rift had left behind. Her fingers tingled. She'd be chasing that sensation for the rest of her life, wouldn't she? With a sigh, she stood and continued on. She'd been traveling for a week, but she didn't have a very clear notion of how far she'd gone. No doubt a really gifted woodsman could cover the same distance in a single day. She planned to keep away from roads and towns for as long as she could, but she'd need news and supplies before much longer. A steady diet of roasted game would not keep her healthy.

That night she cleared a patch of bare earth out from the snow and traced enchantments into the ground. Wards against danger, sigils for warmth. Powering heat spells strong enough to last through a freezing night drained her mana, so she rested for a few minutes before setting out in search of food and water. By the time she returned, the recently-frozen earth was comfortable to the touch and she was exhausted. She set a few simple noise traps and fell into a deep sleep.

***

Cullen stopped for the night when he found Kit's campsite. He could have pressed on for another hour or two, but the temptation was too great. The spells she'd sketched in the earth had lost most of their power and would only continue to degrade, but standing inside the enchanted circle was like stepping into a well-insulated lodge with a fire burning somewhere close by. After a long day of trudging cross-country through drifts of snow that sometimes piled as high as his waist, he couldn't imagine anything better.

He let his pack slide from his shoulders, untied his bedroll and spread it on the ground.

He had plenty of food, but if he wanted water he'd need to build a fire and melt some snow. First, though, he'd canvas the area for more signs of Kit's passing. The phylactery that Solas had made worked perfectly well. He didn't need to track her in the traditional sense, but paying attention to the trail always made the capture easier. He wanted to know if the mage moved quickly or at a leisurely pace (desperation made violence more likely) and if they traveled purposefully or traced an erratic zigzag across the countryside (a mage with a clear destination in mind had outside support, and might not be found alone).

He'd guessed Kit would be the grim, no-nonsense death march type. Those were always the worst. Mages had poor physical condition but determination could really keep them going. It took tricks to bring the death march types in: several Templars converging from different directions, a good horse, a citizen who offered shelter and turned informant.

Instead, she'd turned out to be the spring fever type, if that was even possible in such a frozen landscape. She never traveled more than five miles in a day. Instead of seeking shelter in hidden nooks and crannies, she camped in picturesque locations--often with a panoramic view. Just the day before, he'd found _the clear imprint of her naked body in the snow._ She'd lain down not far from a hot thermal pool--to cool down after a soak, he supposed--and the snow she'd melted with her body heat had hardened into a thin crust of ice.

Cullen had knelt and traced his finger along the slope of the impression's icy spine. And then he'd recoiled, feeling like an absolute bloody pervert. Katherine Trevelyan's figure was no business of his.

That had been the same day he found out she'd closed a Rift. He wouldn't have known if he hadn't swerved toward a small hamlet to ask the handful of fur trappers and sap collectors who lived there if they'd seen any sign of Kit. They hadn't. But they couldn't stop talking about the Rift. How it had opened one day, spewing demons into the woods, scaring away game and the merchant who ran the general goods store, too. And how it disappeared just as suddenly as it had come. Gone, without warning, as though it had never been.

So. Perhaps she wasn't _entirely_ without conscience.

Not far from the enchanted circle, he found a hill where she'd gone sledding. Layers of footprints tromping up the slope. Packed snow where she'd slid down it. And the rusted Templar shield she'd used for a sled, tossed aside and forgotten. He found the shield's owner not far away--a long dead Templar still lying where he'd fallen, dead of a gut wound. Trevelyan hadn't killed the man, but she hadn't had any compassion for him, either.

Cullen built a pyre and stood vigil over the body while it burned. He returned to the campsite and its enchanted circle in the morning, for just long enough to tie his bedroll to his pack and sling it over his shoulders.


	5. Don't make it worse

Kit knew she had a problem when she woke up from a dream about _bread_ for the third night in a row. All the wonders of the Fade at her command, and she pictured herself in a bakery, nose-deep in baguette.

She rolled to a sitting position and yawn-stretched, raising her arms over her head and twisting her back. She missed blankets, too. It didn't matter how much she warmed the air with magic, she still wanted something on _top_ of her. 

All of this meant she missed _money_ and that would be a problem. Kind of a big one.

She sorted through the odds and ends she'd collected during her trek: bits of rope that she'd scavenged, a few pelts that she'd been trying to cure, though they were beginning to smell like rotting corpses so apparently she hadn't gotten the knack of it, and the wooden cup that she'd carved a few nights back. She'd shaped it with an enchanted blade from a piece of driftwood and wished she could show it to First Enchanter Glynnis. Glynnis always said it took more skill to create than to destroy. For years she'd personally taught the youngest pupils to make their own toys. Every offensive spell in the book, with a twist, could be used to create blocks and rocking horses. 

They'd been close for a long time; Glynnis a second mother, Kit the daughter she'd never had. But Glynnis had been a peacemaker and Kit increasingly troubled by the compromises she made. They landed on opposite sides of a widening ideological divide; distance slowly grew into hostility. They'd traveled from Ostwick to the Conclave together, bunked in the same cramped quarters, without ever speaking to one another.

And now she was dead.

With a sigh, Kit packed the wooden cup with snow and warmed it into water. She took a deep swallow as she considered the groundhog she'd killed the night before. Nice and fat, plenty of meat, but she'd have to force down every bite. She wanted bread still warm from the oven. Or lettuce. Fresh, crispy lettuce crunching in her mouth. With a tart citrus dressing, vinegar--no, lemon. Lemon juice and good oil. A bit of cracked pepper. Just thinking of it was making her woozy. 

Woozy and... numb? The cup fell from suddenly stiff fingers; she tried to pick it up but couldn't. But reaching for it made her fall over. Her last thought, before she blacked out, was that one of her arms had tumbled outside her warded circle and she was bound to get frostbite. 

***

She woke with the rough bark of a tree trunk digging into her shoulder blade, the seat of her trousers damp from snow, and her hands tied behind her back. She'd figured out what happened before she actually saw Commander Cullen squatting by a small fire, packing away whatever he'd eaten for lunch. 

He looked over at her, calm and in control. In his element. Fucking Templars. 

"Enchanter Trevelyan." He tucked something into his rucksack and crossed over to her, squatting again so they were at eye level. "I'm sorry about the restraints, but I thought this would be safest for both of us." 

_Don't make it any worse,_ Kit reminded herself. She had to break eye contact, lock her jaw shut. This was the hardest lesson. It was so tempting to scream and shout at moments like these. Defeat assured, punishment inevitable. But Circle mages who asked themselves _What's left to lose?_ always got an answer. Along with a demonstration.

"If you had shared your concerns with us in Haven, we might have been able to address them," Cullen continued in a scolding, revoltingly _paternal_ sort of voice. "You will still have that opportunity when we return. As none of us have even the _slightest notion_ why you decided to flee, I can't promise that your demands will be met." 

Kit bit her tongue.

"Apparently you are the sort of person who can see the sky torn asunder, then turn around and leave the problem to someone else." There was a bite to his voice now. A bit of fire in his eyes. "But the Breach is a problem that we cannot ignore, and it cannot be closed without you." 

Maybe they should have asked her to stick around for the Breach instead of asking her to join the Inquisition. Maybe they should have put aside their endless jockeying for power for a day or two, instead of trying to trap her.

 _Herald of Andraste._ She wondered which one of the advisors had been the first to look up at the sodding hole in the sky and think, "I can use that." Which of them had been the first to take the name of the prophet in vain, then spread the lie among a horde of distraught pilgrims?

Not the Commander. She could tell that much by his outrage. Poor sucker, he probably didn't know the whole thing had been rigged.

"Nothing to say?" 

Kit rolled her eyes. This Templar didn't just hunt mages, he listened to them! What a gentleman. He must pat himself on the back so hard at the end of every day, when he looked back over all his good deeds and congratulated himself. 

"Very well. I'd like to help you stand. Will you allow it?" 

Kit nodded. 

He cupped one hand under her elbow and fastened the other around her opposite forearm, standing and lifting her in one easy motion. Even for a Templar that was... rather smooth. Kit blinked. Standing face to face, her eyes were level with his mouth. Quite a nice mouth. Full lips, more muscular than plump, pale with cold but greased so they didn't chap.

The scar bisecting his upper lip twitched when he began to sneer, so apparently staring was unwelcome. 

"We're a full day's hike from the nearest road," Cullen said. "Once we reach it, I imagine we'll be able to make good time." 

***

Kit managed to keep quiet for the rest of the day. Cullen offered her food, stopped for regular breaks, and gave her enough privacy to manage bathroom functions without dying of shame. It was fucked up that she could even have this thought, but: he was pretty nice, for a jailor. 

They had a momentary crisis when he called a halt for the day. She'd left with nothing but the clothes on her back and had been using her magic to keep warm. He'd brought a year's supply of magebane and dosed her with it regularly, but he _hadn't_ brought a spare bedroll.

"Take mine for the night," Cullen said finally, shifting around to the opposite side of the fire he'd built. "I'll keep watch. Starting tomorrow, we'll be able to overnight at inns." 

If he thought she was going to protest, he was wrong. She scooted over, clumsy because of her bound hands. Cullen made no move to help, but only because he was pretty good at figuring out when she'd welcome assistance and when she'd rather struggle on by herself. Plenty of experience, she supposed. 

The he began to pray, and he was so fervent about it that Kit felt awkward just sitting nearby. She peeked into his pack to distract herself. The contents were all jumbled. Food and clothes and potions in a disorderly clutter, and there, loose in a pocket with a few draughts of lyrium, a crystal phial that glowed blood red.

A phylactery.

"Where did you get that?" Kit demanded, rolling onto her knees. "Ostwick is a _ruin_ , nobody could have--" She froze, realization dawning. "It was the apostate."

"Solas," Cullen supplied.

"The _apostate_ made me a phylactery," Kit repeated. It was like a slap in the face. Worse. She would have died before she agreed to make a phylactery. No matter who asked, no matter who for. "I'm going to kill him."

"I know you don't mean that--" 

Kit turned on the Commander and he flinched back with satisfying suddenness.

He caught himself quickly--she hadn't _frightened_ him, she'd _surprised_ him--and a blue glow gathered in his palm. Kit, who hadn't entirely forgotten that she was bound and helpless, cringed and bowed and stooped, made herself as pathetic as possible.

The blue glow faded.

"Violence will not be tolerated," said Cullen, very firmly. "If you think the Mark on your hand gives you license--"

"Can we skip the lecture?" Kit flung herself onto the bedroll. "I am _sick_ of having murderers preach at me about violence."

"Even if I were every bit the blackguard you've taken me for--"

Kit snorted. "If?"

"--that wouldn't make me wrong," Cullen grated, with admirable self-control. "Right and wrong exist independently of the speaker--"

"I didn't say you were wrong," Kit interrupted. "I said you were the wrong person to _deliver a lecture._ "

A long pause. And then, quietly, "Perhaps I am." 

Kit sighed. Fucking Templars. If this one needed a hug, he was _not_ going to get it from her. She shut her eyes and started counting silently in her head. That always helped her fall asleep, for some reason.

"Once the Breach is closed, you'll be free to go your own way," said Cullen. "Until then, we must put our differences aside--" 

Kit's eyes snapped open. Did he just say that? _Earnestly_? Like he meant it?

"Put our differences aside?" Kit's raised herself up on one elbow and glared across the campfire. "Okay, sure. You postpone the Inquisition. Roll up those banners, stop this ridiculous _Herald of Andraste_ shit, and we'll get started."

His lips thinned into a hard, disapproving line.

"No? I'm the only one who has to make concessions? We're doing this your way or not at all?" Kit paused for a beat. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Don't talk to me about _putting aside our differences_ until you're ready to ante up." 

She closed her eyes and started counting again, then gave up a few minutes later. The endless drone of Cullen's prayers would serve her just as well.


	6. no rest in this world

He'd give the mage credit for one thing: she picked her battles. After her outburst over the phylactery, he'd taken to carrying a philter of lyrium in his pocket at all times. If she managed an escape, he would not be able to restrain her without it. Duty had to come first. Whatever the cost to himself, he would return her--and the Mark--to Haven.

But she was a model prisoner. She didn't complain about the conditions or the pace he set. She understood that, given her bindings, some physical contact was necessary--and aside from a few heated glances, she facilitated it without being rude.

So when they finally reached Haven, four uneventful days later, the lyrium still sat in his pocket, untouched. He rolled the vial in his fingers as they approached the valley, admitting to himself--because if he was not honest with himself, he would fail--that he was disappointed. He'd been _telling himself_ that he resented the prisoner for putting his progress at risk, when really he'd been hoping for an excuse. 

"I am going to untie you," he said. "Everyone here believes that we were absent on an important mission related to the Breach. Returning side by side would preserve that illusion." 

Though Kit had no interest in preserving any illusion. It would serve her to throw a tantrum, hurl accusations in the public square. Perhaps, instead of taking her to the Chantry, he should hold her outside the walls. Send a messenger to fetch Cassandra. 

And then what? Were they going to smuggle her through town in the dark of night, with a blanket over her head? Lock her in the dungeon until they needed the Mark on her hand, then drag her out and force-march her to the Breach?

It might come to that, but he would not countenance such draconian measures in order to _preserve appearances_. They would not reform the Chantry by reproducing its defects.

He untied the ropes and waited while she massaged the feeling back into her wrists and hands. Ropeburn aside, the time outdoors had done her good. Her cheeks were pink, her coal-black hair windblown, and she'd gained a bit of muscle tone. It suited her.

"One final reminder that, should you make another attempt at escape--" 

"I know." 

"Good." 

A crowd gathered as they reached the gates and trailed them through the village. She walked along with her head bowed and eyes on the ground, perfectly docile. _Deceit_ , he reminded himself, but it was too late. Her submissive posture made him feel guilty instead of angry.

They stepped into the shadowed chill of the Chantry, interrupting some sort of diplomatic exchange. Leliana, Cassandra, and Josephine stood in the aisle, along with two women he didn't recognize. The older one in Chantry robes had to be Mother Giselle; Cassandra must have made contact during her excursion to the Hinterlands with Solas. The younger one looked to be a noble of some kind. Perhaps a visiting dignitary? She was beautiful, dark-skinned, wearing a complicated dress of Orlesian silk that did wonders for an already amazing figure. 

"There you are," exclaimed the noble. "And up to no good, as usual."

Cullen did a double-take, but the noble was speaking to... Kit? Who'd got that look in her eye, the one that put him in mind of a rattlesnake. Not angry, exactly. Ready and eager.

"I've promised Josephine that we would have a nice long talk." The noble extended her arm in a friendly way, but Kit jerked out of reach. "Now, now. Is that any way to behave? I'd ask if you forgot your manners, but..." 

"You are so much ruder than I will ever be, Vivienne, and that's saying something." Kit cast a quick, contemptuous glance over the noblewoman's--Vivienne's--shoulder to Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra. "You really know how to pick 'em, don't you?" she muttered, before turning on her heel and stalking out of the Chantry.

"Don't worry," said Leliana, drifting to the noble's side but meeting Cullen's eyes. "We'll keep an eye on her."

"No doubt Kit is tired from the road," Josephine added. "Commander Cullen, have you met Madame de Fer? She was the First Enchanter at Montsimmard and is _now_ the newest member of the Inquisition. I think she will be an asset to our cause." 

"The Circles have fallen, but I remain the leader of the Loyalist mages, and a _staunch_ defender of the Chantry," added Madame de Fer, offering Cullen her hands. "A pleasure to meet you, Commander. Together, we will accomplish great things." 

Cullen clasped them. He knew Madame de Fer by reputation and he could only be glad of her assistance, but after spending a week in Kit's company, he found it all too easy to put himself in her place. _Ante up_. She might have a point.

"Once Solas arrives, you'll have met everyone," Josephine added.

 _Solas._

Maker, he'd forgotten. 

Cullen dashed out of the Chantry just as a shout cracked the cold, crisp air.

"TRAITOR!"

He raced towards the sound, leaping over the short flight of stairs down from the terrace even as the heavy doors of the Chantry slammed behind him. He reached Solas's hut in time to see one of Leliana's scouts walking away with Kit tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She was unconscious, but Solas...

Sometimes Cullen thought his memories were nothing but an exhaustive catalogue of misery. For more than a decade he had borne witness to a relentless parade of suffering--blight and war, betrayal and injustice, grinding poverty and senseless crime--but he had never seen anything like the expression on Solas's face at that moment. It was like staring into the Void, and it chilled him to the bone.

"Commander. I see you've returned safely," said the elf, his voice as measured and soothing as ever. 

Cullen shuddered. No one in the grip of... whatever that was... should be able to speak so calmly. It was unnatural. 

"Never fear, your Herald is only sleeping. I was prepared for her reaction. Now, if you'll excuse me?" Solas phrased it as a question, but he didn't wait for a reply before retreating into his cabin.

 _The Inquisition reborn._ What a joke. They were a handful of charlatans playing politics while the world fell apart. And they were going to fail.


	7. Change of Plans

Leliana propped her hip against the map table in the War Room, arms folded over her chest. Josephine stood to her left and Cassandra to her right, but she kept a particular eye on Commander Cullen. He had been… quiet. Too quiet.

“We cannot approach the mages,” she said. “Vivienne tells me that Kit Trevelyan has been organizing rebel mages in the Free Marches for years. She has allies at Redcliffe, many of whom already look to her for guidance. If we invite them to Haven, we put ourselves in danger of a coup.” 

"She wants nothing to do with the Inquisition, Leliana," said Cullen. "Least of all to _lead_ it."

"She is the Herald of Andraste.” Leliana couldn’t entirely scrub the bitterness out of her voice. When she came up with the title, she had told herself that a falsehood in the service of the Maker could not be blasphemy. She had been punished for her impertinence—and swiftly, too. Katherine Trevelyan was a non-believer, possibly a terrorist. "If she closes the Breach, she may not have a choice. We will approach the Templars, sidestep this problem entirely."

"The Templars may not be able to help," said Josephine, her pen and slate absent for once. Some discussions should never be recorded. "What I saw in Val Royaux worries me greatly. Lord Seeker Lucius seems ready to burn every bridge he has ever crossed."

"This is my concern as well.” Cassandra paced back and forth, as usual. "And the reason why I think we should make haste to Therinfall Redoubt. If the Order is in crisis, we must confront them. That is our purpose."

"Then we are decided,” said Leliana. "Cassandra, Cullen and I make three. And Josephine, you don't object?"

"I do," said Commander Cullen.

The three women stared at him with varying degrees of astonishment.

"I know. I'm surprised to hear myself say it, too." The corner of his mouth twitched and he rubbed his jaw, hiding it. "If we want the _Chantry_ to be different than it was before, then _we_ must be different than we were before. Approaching the Templars simply to deprive Kit of allies... it leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

“Then forget about Kit,” said Leliana. “She plans to leave once the Breach is closed. _You_ were the first to insist that we look for aid from the Templars.”

“We cannot choose our allies to please a woman who won’t stay with us long enough to appreciate it,” Josephine added. 

“So we turn to the Templars for fear that we could not maintain our authority any other way… or we look to the mages, knowing that Madame de Fer has come to keep them in line. One way or another, the future is looking a great deal like the past." Cullen stood. "You have my vote. Approach the mages. Let Josephine decide."

And he walked out of the War Room. _Commander Cullen_. Before they were through! 

“Something happened when he was with the Herald,” said Josephine. “Ever since he returned, he’s been different.” 

“He told me he captured her without incident,” said Cassandra. "If anything out of the ordinary had occurred, he would have mentioned it."

“And yet Josephine’s right. He’s different.” Leliana narrowed her eyes, her plans rearranging themselves. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s not approach the Templars just yet. We should send a group to Redcliffe… to test the waters. Cassandra, you’ll lead the group. Take Solas, Varric, and Kit.”

“That will not be a harmonious group,” observed Cassandra, rather sourly. 

“I know, and I’m sorry.” Leliana caught hold of Cassandra’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “But I need you to be my eyes and ears. This is our chance to learn more about Kit. Find out who she’s friendly with. Listen to stories. See if you can flush out any enemies.” 

Cassandra’s eyebrows notched up. “You still think she murdered the Divine?” 

Vivienne certainly did. Leliana knew better than to take the Iron Lady at her word, but she’d follow the thread and see where it ended. 

“She is a suspect,” said Leliana. “Her, and many others.” 

“I’m in favor of this plan,” said Josephine. “We need all the information available. We cannot afford to make mistakes with the Breach.”

Cassandra sighed. “I’ll make the arrangements.” 

 

 


	8. Is death your only blessing?

Kit paused at the entrance to Leliana's tent. The spymaster knelt before a small personal altar she’d erected in the far corner, a dish of incense releasing tendrils of fragrant smoke to wreathe about a small bronze statue of Andraste. If she was aware of being observed, she gave no sign of it—but Leliana was a former bard. Kit would have wagered money that she was performing. 

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” Leliana recited, head bowed and hands clasped. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.” 

Kit interrupted. “With verses like that it’s a wonder that the converts aren’t lining up, eh?” 

“Kit.” Leliana rose to her feet, quick and lithe. “Charming as always.” 

“You wanted to see me?” 

“Yes.” Leliana gestured for Kit to take a seat. “We haven’t had a chance to talk. I know you have reason to distrust the Chantry. But if we cannot speak honestly with one another, we will never see an end to this conflict. You came to the Conclave. You must want peace.” 

Kit stared levelly at the spymaster. “Let me get this straight. I’ve got two Templars on my tail at all times and a brand new deadbolt on my door that only locks from the outside, but you think it’s possible to have an _honest chat_?” 

“ _You_ have made these precautions necessary.” 

“Mhm.” Kit nodded. “Okay, well. Good talk.” 

“Allow me to extend an olive branch,” Leliana coaxed. “If we asked the rebel mages in Redcliffe to help seal the Breach, would that make you more comfortable? You would be surrounded by allies. You could be sure that they would do their utmost to help, when the time came.” 

“I’m going to assume that any mages you recruited could look forward to the same treatment I’ve received. It’s not a recommendation. What you’re offering sounds more like a threat than a compromise.”

“The Inquisition is not hostile toward mages,” Leliana insisted. 

“Despite appearances to the contrary.” 

“Do you see the sky?” Leliana flung her hand at the wall of her tent, in the direction of the Breach. “The Temple ruins? Bones lying in the dust? So many innocent lives, the faithful murdered where the holiest of holies once stood, and all you see is fodder for your grudges.” 

That hit the mark. Kit raked a hand through her hair. No matter how many times she told herself she had every right to be angry, she kept on feeling like a jackass. Complaining did nobody any good. 

A scout trotted into the tent. “I have the report on Butler, ser.” 

Leliana took the dossier.

“So Butler has turned on us,” Leliana murmured. “I’d hoped my hunch was wrong.”

“You knew him well?” asked the scout. 

“Not as well as I thought. Show me the reports.” She clucked her tongue as she read. “Did he think we wouldn’t notice? He’s killed one of my best agents, and knows where the others are. You know what must be done. Make it clean. Painless if you can. We used to be friends.” 

Friends? Kit shuddered.

Leliana tossed her head, a movement something in between a snake rearing to strike and an aristocratic moue. “You find fault with my decision?” 

“I can’t remember the last time I _didn’t_ find fault with the Chantry’s decisions,” retorted Kit. “Though I appreciate the reminder. For a second there, I was worried you might actually hold the moral high ground.” 

“Butler’s betrayal put our agents in danger,” explained Leliana. “I condemn one man to save dozens. I may not like what I do, but it must be done. I cannot afford the luxury of ideals at a time like this.”

“I bet you’ve been saying that every day since you became the Left Hand.” Kit glanced at the scout. “I should let you get back to work.” 

“Wait!” Leliana snatched up a quill, dipped it in an open pot of ink, and scrawled a line on a narrow strip of paper. She blew it dry and handed it to her scout. “Apprehend Butler, but see that he is brought back alive.” 

The scout bowed himself out.

“Well?” Leliana prompted. “Are you happy?” 

“Yeah,” Kit drawled. “You decided not to kill a former friend. I’m delighted.” 

“Such high standards,” said Leliana. “Perhaps you would prefer to make the decisions yourself? That could be arranged.”

“Most people who join an organization in order to change it end up changed by the organization instead,” said Kit, with a perfectly straight face. She had half a mind to add _Prime example: you_ , but decided she’d at least pretend to be subtle. “Depressing pattern. But I doubt that was a serious offer.” 

“It was. Of course it was.” Leliana twirled the quill she still held between her thumb and index finger. It made for an odd contrast. The woman so preternaturally still, the feather spinning so rapidly it blurred. “Give us the opportunity to negotiate in good faith. Join the party headed to Redcliffe. The mages there know you, and they will trust you as an intermediary. Help us do this right.” 

Kit decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Something odd was going on here, but there were few things Kit wanted more than to go to Redcliffe. 

“When do we leave?” she asked.

“Tomorrow.” 

Another scout approached; Kit held up the flap for the newcomer before meandering past the tavern and through the gates of Haven, the two Templars half a dozen paces behind the whole way. She skirted the soldiers, training under Commander Cullen’s watchful eye—he really did have quite a bellow, didn’t he?—and renewed the warmth spell she’d cast on herself as she sat down on the pier extending out over the frozen lake. 

To her surprise, Cullen signaled for one of his lieutenants to take over and followed her out to the pier.

“So.” He unbuckled his sword belt so that he could sit beside her, though he kept one hand on the scabbard. He wore his fur mantle again and his hair slicked close to his skull, all his Haven polish restored. “Off to Redcliffe.” 

They hadn’t talked much on the long march back to Haven and they _certainly_ weren’t friends, but they’d grown easy in one another’s company. Kit didn’t tense up at his approach; he sat close, only a thin sliver of space separating their bodies, without any awkwardness. 

Kit smiled. “It was a group decision?” 

Cullen shrugged, the tufts of fur on his mantle rising and falling just a half-second behind his shoulders, like an echo.

“No?” Kit hummed, sensing a puzzle. “It wasn’t a group decision? Or… I see. It was a Commander-excluded decision.” 

“I wasn’t present for the discussion,” Cullen acknowledged.

It took a minute for the other copper to drop—if she hadn’t just come from Leliana’s tent, she wouldn’t have figured it out—but when it did, she started laughing uncontrollably. 

“What?” Cullen demanded.

Kit shook her head. “You don’t want to know.” 

Cullen made an impatient gesture, slicing his hand through the air. “A reply designed to make me insist. What don’t I want to know?” 

“They’re separating us.” 

He frowned, not quite understanding. 

“Someone thinks you’re in danger of defecting,” Kit clarified. “Swayed by my wiles.”

“Absurd.” If she’d been at all interested the faint but unmistakable _disgust_ in his voice would have broken her heart. “I would never—”

“No, you wouldn’t. You were scrupulously correct,” Kit assured him. Then she laughed again, not kindly. “They must keep you on a short leash, Commander.” 

His expression shuttered, suddenly and completely. 

“And that really upsets you,” marveled Kit. She glanced back at the shore, to make sure no one had crept close to eavesdrop, and lowered her voice. “A piece of advice, in solidarity. Don’t let them jerk you around. It’ll only get worse.” 

She stood up and patted the dense coarse fur of his mantle. “Fucking Templars,” she said, with concerning fondness, and made her way back to her cabin for the evening. 

 

 

 

 


	9. Always stick together

It was Kit's turn to cook, which turned out to be her favorite chore. Better than gathering firewood or tending to the horses, anyhow. Cassandra scowled when Kit started dicing onions with an enchanted blade, but she didn't intervene. That was all the permission Kit needed.

She dished out her stew an hour or so later, which kicked off what had become her least favorite part of the day: dinnertime. For the most part, she and her traveling companions avoided conflict by... avoiding each other. But everyone felt obliged to sit silently around the campfire during meals.

Sometimes, when she wasn't caught up in her own disgruntlement, she'd look around and start to laugh. They all had ways of dodging interaction. Cassandra behaved as though each bite were a potential threat, requiring her full attention. Solas stared off into the distance with his eyes out of focus; it was a miracle his spoon ever made it inside his mouth. And Varric--well, whenever she started peeking around, he was always doing it too, though he struck her as more sad than amused.

They’d arrive in Redcliffe early the next day, and Kit was counting down the hours. It seemed like forever since she’d had an actual conversation. 

"So this is fun," said Varric, scraping up the last of his stew.

Kit giggled.

"For someone," Varric continued. "Finally."

"I'm going to go wash up," said Kit, standing with a grin. "Bring me your bowl when you're done and I'll get yours too."

***

A Rift blocked the gates to Redcliffe Village. After tromping along in silence for three hours, they all sprang into action. Kit conjured walls of ice to funnel the demons toward Cassandra, who held them at bay while Varric and Solas shredded them. It was quickly done; Kit closed the Rift before any of them broke a sweat. 

The gates barring the road creaked open and a slender brunette in her mid-twenties jogged through. She wore tattered, faded Circle robes but carried a gleaming silver staff with gold inlay running the whole length of the barrel and a faceted amber gem at the top. 

“Aileen!” Kit launched herself at the woman, arms outstretched. “You made it! Who else from Markham is here? Is that Ginevra’s staff?”

“Ginevra was killed not ten miles from here, Kit,” answered Aileen, pulling her into a hug. “But most of us made it in one piece. And now you! I have never been so happy to see anyone in my life!” 

“The Conclave—“ 

“Forget about the Conclave,” said Aileen. “That’s old news. Can we talk?” 

Kit turned back to her merry band of companions. "Can I meet you at the tavern in a little while?”

"It would be... safer if you stayed with us," said Cassandra.

"She'll be fine, Seeker," said Varric. "You go with your friend, Pepper. We'll look around a bit and catch up with you later."

"You'll find the tavern is about two thirds of the way down the main road," said Aileen. “The Gull and Lantern. Can't miss it!"

Aileen hauled her into the village, not much more than a collection of thatch-roofed huts grouped along the lakeshore. Lake Calenhad stretched all the way to the horizon, the great bulk of Redcliffe Castle seeming to rise out of the waters by magic. 

Kit dug her heels in before they'd gone too far. "The rest of my party are Inquisition, and I think they're here as spies."

“Andraste’s tits.” Aileen waved to man who looked vaguely familiar. With his shorn hair, stubble, and piercing eyes he stood right at the intersection of grizzled and handsome—a type Kit greatly appreciated—but she couldn’t remember where they’d met. 

"Theo," said Aileen, when he reached them. “You know Kit, don’t you? She’s come with the Inquisition but says they’re not to be trusted. Pass the word and have Bits and Nina meet us in my cottage."

"Not to be trusted?" Theo raised his eyebrows at Kit. "I was hoping if you were with them..."

"Don't be fooled," said Kit. "It's the same old Chantry, just with a new name."

“I wish I were surprised.” Theo sighed. "I'll join you as soon as I can."

“Brace yourself,” said Aileen, waving Kit towards one of the thatch-roofed huts. “You’re not going to like this news.” 

“You’re starting to scare me, Aileen.” 

“Inside first.” Aileen opened the weathered wooden door and shooed Kit through it. It was spacious inside, round with a pitched roof, and smelled like fish. Considering the harpoons hanging on the walls and the table lamps fashioned out of glass buoys, the previous resident had made a living by fishing. 

Kit finished her survey and turned back to Aileen, eyebrow cocked. 

“Fiona’s sold us all to Tevinter.” 

“She’s done _what_?” Kit screeched. 

“She _sold us_ ,” enunciated Aileen. “To _Tevinter_.”

“Has she gone _mad_?” Kit flung her hands up into the air. “Have _you_? Why didn’t you stop her?” 

“I don’t know.” Aileen knuckled her temple. “It all happened very suddenly. We’d only just heard about the Conclave. Some of us were still in shock. And then she presented us with this contract…” 

“A contract?” 

The door opened and a middle-aged woman stepped inside. She carried a few extra pounds and did nothing to disguise the grey in her hair, but no one who’d looked into her sharp brown eyes would call her soft. She was anything but. 

“You shouldn’t have come, Kit,” said Nina, pulling her into a hug. “But I am so glad to see you.” 

“And I, you.” Kit squeezed hard. “How many from Ansburg made it? I’ve heard rumors…” 

“Only five of us,” answered Nina. “Some day, when I can bear it, I’ll tell you how it happened. Bandits, shipwreck, Templars, wild beasts. I had no idea the world could hold so much misfortune. And now… has Aileen explained?” 

“She said something about slavery?” 

“A magister offered his protection in exchange for ten years of indentured servitude,” said Nina. “And Fiona took the deal.” 

“You can ignore the contract,” said Kit. “Both slavery and indentured servitude are illegal in Ferelden. No court would enforce the terms.” 

“But the magister—his name is Alexius—came with an army. The one he’s using to ‘protect’ us,” said Nina. “If we try to set aside the contract, he’ll use force.”

“There are more than fifty children under the age of ten here,” said Aileen. “We can’t risk a battle.” 

“And not many of the adults are fighters,” added Bits, who’d just arrived. She was short, plump, and the best combat mage Kit had ever met. “Alexius outnumbers us three to one, and half of his soldiers are mages. We don’t stand a chance against them, head-on.” 

“Have you approached the Arl of Redcliffe?” Kit asked. “He might be able to add to our numbers.”

“Alexius chased him away,” said Nina. “Though Conor’s still here as a hostage.” 

Kit buried her head in her hands and groaned. Making travel arrangements had been one of her main projects in the months leading up to the Conclave. She’d begged for funds, she’d bought supplies, she’d haggled with ship’s captains and examined donkey teeth. All to get the mages to Redcliffe, where a kind-hearted Arl with a mage in the family had offered asylum.

So much for that.

Diplomacy not being her strong suit, Ginevra had done all the actual negotiating. “And Ginevra’s dead.”

“Ginevra had a silver tongue, but even she would have had a hard time mending these fences,” said Nina. 

“All right,” said Kit. “What about escape?” 

“We can smuggle small groups out of Redcliffe, that’s easy enough,” said Bits. “But once Alexius realized what we were up to, anyone left in the village would be lost. That’s a high price to pay.” 

“Theo passed on your warning about the Inquisition,” said Nina. “But I’ve only heard good things about the soldiers stationed at the Crossroads. Why don’t you tell us the rest of the story?” 

“I can tell you everything you need to know about the Inquisition and mages in a single sentence: I’ve already got a new phylactery and they’ve just invited Vivienne to join.” Kit raised her hands in the air, quieting the sudden outburst of groans and curses. “But I _am_ here to negotiate. They’ve taken on the challenge of closing the Breach, and they need help. You have some leverage.”

“Will they deal honestly with us?” Aileen asked.

“I doubt it,” Kit answered. “The Left and Right Hands of the Divine are running things in Haven. Mostly the Left.” 

“I heard a Templar from _Kirkwall_ is commanding their army,” said Bits. “Is that true?”

“True,” Kit confirmed. “I don’t know what to tell you about Commander Cullen. He’s good looking and he prays a lot.” 

“Fucking Templars,” muttered Bits. 

Kit grinned. “Here, here!” 

That got a few laughs, which died out when the door opened and Theo stepped through. 

“Did you solve all our problems while I was out?” he asked. 

“Not a one,” answered Nina. 

“Well, that’s a shame because I’ve got a few more to throw at you. Alexius just went into the Gull and Lantern to parley with the Inquisition and there’s a Tevinter mage in the Chantry who wants to meet you.” 

“ _Another_ Tevinter mage?” 

“He’s been skulking about for the past week, trying to convince us that he’s here to stop Alexius,” said Theo. “Though if you believe that, I’ve got some property in Gwaren to sell you.” 

Kit laughed. “So I shouldn’t take the bait?” 

“I think he’s sincere,” said Aileen.

“And I think you’ve confused sincere and good-looking,” Nina chided. “The handsome Tevinter is very cosy with Alexius’s son, Felix. He’s here for personal reasons. He might be angry at Alexius now, but that could change very easily.”

“If he can tell us more about Alexius, I want to meet with him,” said Kit. “It sounds like we should focus our efforts on assassinating Alexius. Best chance of success, fewest casualties. I’ll join the strike party.” 

“You?” Theo asked. “Aren’t you the Herald of Andraste now?” 

“No,” said Kit. “While I meet with the shady Tevinter, make up a list of demands. Decide if you want me to take them back to Haven. I’ll do my best, but… they’re not very impressed with me.” 

“Then they’re fools,” said Aileen. “Chantry’s at the end of the main road, Kit. Maker be with you.” 


	10. Friends and friendly are not the same thing

Kit looked up as the light spilling through the Chantry windows dimmed. Only a cloud, but it reminded her of the time passing. She’d been talking with the handsome Tevinter, Dorian, for almost a half hour. “I should go. The rest of the Inquisition party could arrive at any minute.”

“I must admit, I’m surprised to discover that the relationship between the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisition is so… strained,” said Dorian. If he wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever met, he certainly made the best combination of raw material and skillful presentation.

“Not half as surprised as I am to find out that rumor has us hand in glove,” returned Kit. “Make your case to Cassandra. If she commits to anything, I believe her word is good. But if you don’t get the support you need—I will confront Alexius with you, and I will convince the other mages here at Redcliffe to give us any help we need.”

“It’s a deal,” said Dorian, surrounding her hands with his for a quick squeeze.

“You know where I’ll be,” said Kit, before slipping out through a side door. She skirted the edge of town, cutting across to the tavern when she saw the sign. A few people greeted her when she stepped inside, and she started to call back to them until she saw Fiona sitting alone at the only empty table in the room.

Kit signaled the bartender and took a seat on the bench opposite the Grand Enchanter. Fiona was thin even for an elf, her skin a little loose around her bones with age, nothing but gristle and tendon to pad her out. Somewhere along the way, an expression of weary resignation had gotten stuck on her face.

“So,” Kit said, lacing her hands together and leaning into them. “Fucked this one up.”

“Katherine.” Fiona smiled bitterly. “I thought you were shunning me.”

“Shunning? Me?” Kit took the mug of cider the bartender brought and flipped a silver coin into his palm. She had a purse now, courtesy of the Inquisition. “I like to tell people what I think of them.”

Fiona flinched. “Silly me,” she said shakily, her Orlesian accent thickening. “I should have guessed.”

“You’re not a good leader.”

Fiona hunched her shoulders and nodded.

“That’s it,” said Kit. “You treat decisions like they’re hot potatoes and the results are predictable. Now please tell me you’ve got some idea of how to get rid of Alexius beyond ‘wait for Inquisition to rescue us’.”

“But you are part of the Inquisition,” Fiona objected. “You would never abandon us.”

“I’m not in charge, Fiona. Not even close.”

“I see.” Fiona narrowed her eyes. “I suppose that’s why Alexius thinks the Inquisition will make a deal. He’s come to Ferelden for you, you know. The rest of us are incidental.”

“He’s here for this, you mean.” Kit peeled off her glove and showed Fiona the Mark.

Fiona took Kit’s hand, turned it back and forth, traced her fingertips over the palm. “How astonishing. I see a tear in your flesh, but the skin feels solid,” she said.

“I think it exists both here and in the Fade at the same time,” said Kit. “I think the Mark is itself a kind of Rift.”

“There are different kinds?” Fiona asked. “I’ve only been able to observe the one in front of Redcliffe.”

“If you imagine the Breach as a wound in the sky, every Rift is like a drop of blood that’s fallen from the cut,” said Kit. “But they’re not all identical. I don’t know why, but I’ve started ruling things out. It’s not distance from the Breach. It’s not size, either.”

“You’ll figure it out, you always do…” Fiona trailed off. “Katherine, you must leave. Stay away and buy us some time.”

Kit sighed. As usual, not a solution. Just putting off the problem for another day. She swallowed her retort with a mouthful of cider. Fiona was weak—a strong woman riddled with cracks, which was the same as being weak—and snapping at her only brought her that much closer to shattering.

Just then Cassandra barged through the front door, trailed by Solas and Varric.

“Over here.” Kit waved. “Where’ve you been?”

“Thought we’d take a walk,” answered Varric. “You know the Seeker. Sitting still makes her sword hand itch.”

Kit’s smile didn’t falter. She’d prepared a fake one in advance, so she could hold it through any answer. Including the unwelcome discovery that Varric had taken on the role of designated liar for the group. She shouldn’t be surprised. He was a man of many talents, real talents, but a bit of snake oil greased his silver tongue.

 _Friendly and friends are not the same thing_ , Kit reminded herself.

“Idleness is a sin,” said Cassandra. “If you’ve finished your business here, Kit, it’s time for us to go.”

“I hear and obey,” said Kit dryly. “Take care of yourself, Fiona.”

“You too, Katherine.”

***

“I did not know you were acquainted with the Grand Enchanter,” said Cassandra over dinner that night. It had been her turn to cook, and the result was phenomenal. Kebabs of ram meat, crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, and a sprinkling of hot chile flakes. She carried dried chiles in her pack and, despite the fact even a light application brought tears to everyone’s eyes, described them as “not that hot.”

“I’ve spent some time at the College of Magi,” said Kit. “So we’ve met.”

Cassandra’s brows lifted. “At your age?”

“The First Enchanter of Ostwick and I used to be close,” said Kit. “For years, she included me in her retinue when she traveled to Cumberland.”

“ _Close_ close?” Varric asked.

“No, Varric. Mentor and pupil close.” Kit scowled at her dinner and then added, grudgingly, “Mother and daughter close.”

“But that changed?” Solas asked.

Kit glared at the elf. She still planned to kill him. Later, when he wouldn’t expect it and she wouldn’t get caught.

“Could you hold off on the death stare?” Varric asked. “It ruins my appetite.”

“Only because you asked nicely.” Kit returned her attention to her food. “I’ll give you twenty minutes to digest, and then it’s back to plotting revenge.”

“Your anger is unwarranted. Childish, even,” said Solas. “Even if I’d given you the benefit of the doubt and assumed that, having run, you’d try to seal the Breach on your own, you would not have succeeded. The only allies you could have turned to are here, and they are not free to help.”

“Failure of imagination,” said Kit.

“You could not be more wrong,” returned the elf, stiffly. “Experience is the stuff from which imagination is made—and my journeys across Thedas and through the Fade have allowed me a range of experience _inconceivable_ to any Circle mage.”

Kit licked the juices from her fingertips. She could hardly feel her tongue, but her sinuses had never been so clear in her life. “Then your shortsightedness in this case is especially embarrassing.”

Solas pursed his lips.

“You don’t think Chuckles might have a point?” Varric asked. “You left us all to die. What were we supposed to do?”

“You’re one to talk, Varric,” said Cassandra. “How many times have I asked you to find Hawke? How many times have you refused?”

Varric sighed. “Point taken.”

Kit blinked. Cassandra was the last person she’d have expected to leap to her defense, though perhaps that was her own short-sightedness at work. The Seeker worked hard to be fair.

“Though I, too, would like to know why you left,” the Seeker added.

“I left for the same reason you had me brought back,” said Kit. “Because you don’t just want to seal the Breach. You want _the Inquisition_ to seal the Breach. This might be the end of the world, but we’re all still making plans for afterwards.”

“So your problem is with the Inquisition itself. You are not alone in your dislike.” Cassandra considered this. “Do you believe in the Maker?”

“No.” Kit tipped her head to the side. “That is, if the Maker is a god, he's no different—and no better—than any other.”

“I see,” said Cassandra. Very calmly, she tossed the stripped branch she’d used to skewer her kebab into the fire, stood up, and stalked off into the darkness. One of the logs popped loudly in the silence that followed.

“I’m curious,” said Solas. “Do you believe in the Creators? The elven gods?”

“Does it matter?” Kit asked. “Either they exist or not. What I think has nothing to do with it. Besides, if there’s one thing all the gods from all the religions have in common, it’s a tendency to mind their own business. The elven gods have all been locked away, the Maker avoids us on principle. Whatever the reason, it’s not like I need to worry about crossing paths with any of them.”

“Of course such an event would be unlikely,” Solas acknowledged. “But you must admit the possibility, at least.”

“Is this some sort of logic game? Like, the second I call it _impossible_ I’m expressing faith in something so the whole argument falls apart?” Kit sighed. “Sure. It’s possible. Lots of things are possible. You might get tired of beige. Varric might decide to start buttoning his shirts. But I wouldn’t wager any money on it.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not a betting man,” said Solas. “Perhaps Varric will take you up on it? He might enjoy the long odds.”

“Oh, no,” said Varric, waving both his hands palms out. “You leave me out of this. I’m going to bed before any of us get hit by lightning. In fact, I might even move my tent just in case it strikes while we’re asleep.”

Kit tossed her skewer into the fire and stood. She glanced at Solas, who was looking smug as usual, rolled her eyes and stalked off to her tent.


	11. plan and execute

Cullen reminded himself, again, not to stand with his arms folded over his chest. People found it unfriendly. He gripped the pommel of his sword instead and determined to be still. 

_They must keep you on a short leash, Commander._

He was not the Inquisition’s leader. He had never enjoyed the Divine’s confidence. He had been lucky when Cassandra plucked him out of Kirkwall, offered him a new life and new hope. He could name at least a half-dozen others who would have been equally qualified for the job. 

But none of them so desperate as he was.

Kirkwall had fallen into ruin while he climbed the ranks there. He had turned on his commanding officer. No matter how justified—how _necessary_ —his actions had been, they put a black mark on his record. If the Inquisition failed, his career would be over. If he proved disloyal, his career would be over. 

He had not been chosen for his talent. He had been chosen because, once committed, he could not turn back. He appreciated the strategy, ruthless as it was. But he had tried to give his life in service to a cause and the reality never ceased to disappoint. 

“Leliana’s fears of a coup have merit,” said Cassandra. “None of the mages of Redcliffe would speak to us, so Varric agreed to do some eavesdropping. Apparently Kit instructed the rebel mages not to speak to us—and they obeyed.” 

“It’s worse than I thought,” said Leliana. 

“Or better,” countered Cullen, his voice harsh to his own ears. “Loyalty goes two ways. A mage with a family is a mage who can be controlled.” 

Leliana glared. “We do what we must.” 

“Speaking of her family,” said Josephine. “They’ve made contact. Bann Trevelyan is very concerned for his daughter’s welfare and has offered support in the form of food, raw materials, and troops. No conditions, though I suspect the bann’s goal is to plant soldiers loyal to himself and his daughter among ours.” 

“That’s… not what I expected to hear,” said Cullen.

“You did not see her among her friends,” said Cassandra. “She was quite warm.” 

“Perhaps. But she is hostile towards us,” said Josephine. “I have made my decision. It would be unwise to approach the mages, given the circumstances. We have the opportunity to avoid a problem and we should take it.” 

He had been outvoted. 

Cullen’s shoulders sagged in relief. _Relief_. What a hypocrite he was. He'd followed his conscience, but he had dreaded success. At heart, he wanted the familiar. He wanted his brother Templars. 

“Cassandra and I will leave for Therinfall in the morning,” he said.

They made a few final arrangements, and then Cullen left the War Room to begin another round of meetings with his lieutenants. A third of his soldiers would travel to Therinfall with him. The rest would remain in Haven under Lieutenant Rylen’s command, and he wanted to make sure that everything ran smoothly in his absence.

When he finally left for the mess, he saw Kit idling nearby. She sat on a low retaining wall, bowed over a chunk of wood she whittled at with an enchanted blade the size of a paring knife. 

“Kit?” he asked. 

“Oh, hey.” She straightened and offered him a small, tentative smile. “Commander. How are you?” 

“Busy.” He took a few steps closer. “Did you need something?” 

“Nope.” The blade vanished and she tossed her carving at him. “I was just passing the time.” 

He caught the projectile; she’d made an acorn. The smooth bowl of the nut contrasted pleasantly with the pebbled and rough cap. 

“There’s more than enough work to do,” he said.

“I’m sure there is.” She glanced up at him through her lashes and began to twirl the tip of her shining dark braid around one finger. “I hear you’re leaving in the morning?” 

“That’s right.” He took another step closer, still rubbing his thumb against the acorn. “Not for long. And please don’t worry. Templars are soldiers. They follow the lead of their commanding officer, and I won’t allow them to harass you.” 

She tried out that smile again. Quick, hesitant. “Confident, aren’t you?” 

Cullen stiffened. She was _flirting_ with him.

“What are you up to?” he asked, not at all in the tone of voice he’d intended.

“Oh. Nothing.” She glanced past him at his tent and then wrenched her gaze back to his face. Flipped her braid over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes in a comic, exaggerated way. “Always so suspicious.”

“I—” Cullen paused. He looked back at his tent, as she had, the pieces falling into place. Maker, what kind of fool did she take him for? At the very least, he’d spent enough time in her company to know that she wasn’t the type to make cow eyes and fiddle with her hair when a man caught her interest. She probably—but no, he wouldn't pursue that thought. “I thought we’d settled this.” 

“Settled what?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence. 

He grabbed hold of her upper arm and spoke in the same tone he used on soldiers who shirked their duties. “You will remain here until the Breach has been sealed, and your phylactery will remain with me.” 

She tugged at his grip. When he didn’t let go, she swayed closer and cocked her hip, the luscious curve of it perfectly outlined by her tight-fitting wool trousers. “But afterwards? After the Breach has been sealed, we can destroy it?” 

His pulse picked up. He measured his breaths to slow it down. “No. After the Breach is sealed, we will end the war. The Circles will be re-instated, the mages will return or face punishment, and _all_ phylacteries will be remade.” 

She peered at his tent again. Moving his hand slowly to avoid drawing attention, Cullen patted his pocket. He felt the familiar shape of the cut crystal and relaxed. She wouldn't be able to destroy her phylactery so long as he kept it close.

“What about you?" she snapped, abandoning the act. "Will _you_ go back to a Circle, once this is all over?” 

“No.” Nothing on Thedas could drag him back. “I am not a Templar anymore.” 

“You keep saying that,” she seethed. “And it keeps not being true.” 

Kit whirled about and stalked off. Cullen watched her go; grown men skittered out of the way, clearing a path for her. 

“Up to her old tricks, is she?” asked Vivienne.

Cullen started. He hadn’t noticed her approach. “Pardon?” 

“The whole College of Magi made a pet of her when she was a child. Glynnis's little prodigy. She ran amok, I tell you. No manners. Wheedling sweets out of the First Enchanters like they were vendors at a fair. She thought all she had to do to get whatever she wanted was smile and say please."

“Really?” He couldn’t picture it. 

“Oh, yes.” Vivienne’s wide, full-lipped smile had not an ounce of warmth in it. “She’s turned rabid, of course, but some things never change. Do teach her some discipline, Commander. She needs it.” 

Vivienne sauntered off, obviously pleased with herself. Cullen put both women from his mind. Whatever their history, he wanted nothing to do with it. Therinfall awaited. 

 

 


	12. damn the consequences

Two days after the Commander marched for Therinfall with her phylactery in his pocket (In his pocket! Creepy.), Kit stole a full scout’s uniform from the laundry and skulked out of Haven like it was her job.

She didn’t need to escape for good. She just needed long enough to deal with Alexius. By the time they realized she’d fled and sent a raven to the Commander, he’d be in Therinfall. He wouldn’t leave before he’d accomplished what he set out to do, and that was all the window of opportunity she needed.

Even the weather cooperated. The sun shone so brightly that the light reflecting off the snow and ice as it melted almost blinded her. Before she’d gone more than a few miles, Kit began to sweat. She stopped for long enough to take off her leather coat and sling it over her arm.

A bright red bird perched on the bare black branch of a nearby tree trilled at her.

Kit grinned. “Nice day isn’t it?”

The bird dipped its head and dove, wings spreading and beating urgently, carrying the creature up and away.

Kit whistled a farewell and, cheered by the encounter, began to hum one of Maryden's tavern songs. She kept to the road, compromising safety for speed, pausing occasionally to catch her breath. No dawdling this time. Down and down she went, closer to the lowlands with every bend and switch, until she could see the green valleys and sparkling rivers far below.

And then she followed a turn in the road and saw Solas sitting on a fallen log, looking rather bored. She'd seen him pottering around his cabin just that morning, but there he was. Hands laced in his lap, staring up at the sky with a faraway look in his eyes, as though he'd been there for a while. 

"Impossible," she said flatly.

He started at the sound of her voice, turning towards her a second before his gaze fully focused. "Finally," he said. "I was wondering when you'd arrive." 

" _Finally_?" Kit repeated. "What are you doing here? How did you get here so fast?" 

Solas shrugged. "I took a shortcut." 

"No, you didn't." Kit took her staff in hand and whirled, looking for Inquisition scouts or Templars. Had Cullen figured out her scheme? Arranged an ambush? "I'm not going back with you."

"That's not why I'm here. I've decided to try something different this time." He pointed to two rucksacks propped against the log he sat on. “I’m going to accompany you. Food, tents, everything we’ll need to make it to the nearest city and beyond, if that’s your wish.”

"Are you kidding?" Kit demanded. "I'm not going anywhere with you." 

“I’m perfectly serious. You accused me of a failure of the imagination. I think it unlikely, but I’m willing to be proven wrong.”

The supplies _would_ help. A lot. She still had her purse, but it wouldn't buy her more than a couple of meals and she had a ways to go. But Solas’s superior attitude—the way he seemed to be _humoring_ her—made warning bells clang in her mind.

“I am an apostate, Kit,” said the elf. “I am not Andrastean. Believe me when I say that my loyalties are my own. I am here because of the Breach and for so long as you remain the key to sealing it, I will do everything in my power to keep you alive. If that means following you on a wild goose chase across half of Thedas, so be it.”

Kit leaned on her staff, hand one one hip. This whole thing was off somehow. There was no way Solas could have packed two rucksacks, carried them all this way, and arrived ahead of her. She didn't believe for an instant that he'd found a shortcut. 

But if Cullen—or any of the other Inquisition higher-ups—had known she planned this little sidetrip, they wouldn't have sent Solas alone. They didn't trust him enough. 

Perhaps for good reason.

"All right." Kit tucked her coat into one of the packs and heaved it over her shoulders. Her friends needed her. She didn't have time to solve a mystery. "Let's go." 

Solas took up the other pack and they continued down the road, single file at first and then side by side as the steep mountain slopes began to gentle. 

"So," began Solas. "What exactly is your plan?" 

Kit snorted. Like she'd tell him. 

“Do you think you will be able to seal the Breach before the Commander catches up to us, followed by an army of angry Templars?”

“I’m sure you’ll feel very smug about this,” said Kit, “but our little excursion has nothing to do with sealing the Breach.”

“No? What a surprise.”

Kit shot him a look. “But I do plan to be back in Haven by the time the Commander returns from Therinfall. I’ll go to the Breach with the Templars and do everything I can to seal it.”

“Ah.” Solas nodded thoughtfully. “So here we are, headed into the Hinterlands. I wonder where we could be going? What urgent task might await your attention?”

“You know, Solas…"

Solas raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Nothing. For obvious reasons, I’m the last person to complain about surly know-it-alls.” Kit sighed. “And I probably deserve the ribbing. Anyone could guess where I'm headed. It all comes down to whether or not I have enough of a head start.”

“As it happens, I engineered a few delays before I set out after you.”

“You did? Like what?”

“I put sleep spells on the guards. Released all of Leliana’s ravens. Master Dennet’s horses will turn up lame—a temporary condition, but no one will be riding after us today.”

Kit stopped in the middle of the road. "Really?"

Solas nodded. 

“Do you know how to juggle?” Kit asked.

“What?”

“Juggle,” Kit repeated. “Do you know how?”

“I… Yes.”

Kit conjured a pair of snowballs. She tossed them to Solas one by one and conjured two more while they arced through the air, then threw those too. He sent the balls flying back, surprisingly nimble, and they quickly fell into a rhythm as they hiked along. It passed the time.

It was even fun.


	13. Champion of the Just

He was on guard in the Gallows of Kirkwall. The sun beat down, cooking him in his heavy armor. Wool skirts, thick leather boots. Just making it to the end of watch without fainting was an accomplishment on days like this. The white marble plaza gleamed, freshly scrubbed, and the great bronze statues of chained slaves loomed over the vivid blue waters of the Waking Sea. 

Hawke strutted out from behind a pillar. With her battered leather armor and short-cropped hair, she ought to have looked like a thug. But, as always, she more resembled a queen. 

“You’re comfortable here, aren’t you?” Hawke asked. “You feel like you belong.” 

“Yes.”

Why had he answered that question? He did not discuss personal matters with Hawke. He tried not to talk with her at all. She caused trouble. Anyone who associated her found themselves drawn into it.

“Everything was clear,” said Hawke. “That’s what you liked. True and false, right and wrong. So long as you knew which was supposed to be which, you were happy. That doesn’t have to change.” 

“It already changed,” said Cullen. Though he couldn’t remember exactly when or how. The heat clouded his mind. Sweat trickled down the small of his back, tickling. 

“Truth kneels before a good sword arm, just like anything else,” said Hawke. “That’s what you learned in Kirkwall.” 

He shuddered. Somehow Hawke had spoken aloud words that had lain just below the level of his awareness, dormant seeds waiting to sprout. 

But _Hawke_? Maker help him, he admired her. She was ferocious, dogged, brave. But empathy was not one of her qualities. She acted and let others sort out the wreckage. She did not have the patience for soul-searching. 

And why was the Gallows empty? In the middle of the day? Where were the merchants, the passersby, his brother Templars on their way to and from the barracks? 

His brother Templars. 

The illusion cracked, just a tiny fissure. Certainty slipped through: He had escaped this life. If he had been drawn back, it was not by choice.

Cullen began to recite the Chant of Light. 

“Enough praying,” interrupted Kit Trevelyan, looking just as she had when he captured her in the mountains. Sleep-tousled, her long black hair unbound, wearing trousers and a light undershirt. “We don’t have time for that. It’s boring.” 

His mouth went dry. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; his prayers faltered. 

He had secured her without either of them being hurt; a great success. But after trapping her with a sleeping draught, he’d had to tend to her unconscious body. He’d dragged her out of the warded circle where she’d slept and dressed her in the thick sweater she’d used as a pillow. He’d worked her arms through her long leather coat and fastened the buttons. He had done exactly what was necessary, no more and no less, careful to touch her as little as possible.

But his thoughts…

He excelled at resisting temptation. It was one of his greatest talents. He could do so again. 

“That’s right,” urged Kit, with an intensity that made his whole body flash hot. “Tell me what you feel.” 

“Tell me what you are,” said Hawke, cocking her hip and smirking. 

“Tell me what you know,” added a new voice, though he recognized this one as well as the other two. Neria Surana, the Hero of Ferelden, as young and beautiful as she had been when she left Kinloch Hold to become a Grey Warden. He remembered desiring her, but to his adult mind she looked like a child. 

Just a child. 

Neria glided up behind Hawke and plunged a dagger into her neck. Hawke crumpled, her eyes flashing green like Rifts. Kit tried to flee, but Neria drove the dagger—still bright and clean—into her back. Kit’s eyes glowed, twin lanterns in a blackening face, and she fell beside Hawke. 

“We have places to go.” Neria took his hand and led him across the empty courtyard towards the barracks. They stepped through the door and into… a garden. Manicured trees and shrubs, walkways of dressed stone, a colossal Chantry looming in front of him. 

“You can be a Hero, too,” said Neria, leading him up the Chantry steps. “You can do great things.” 

The layout of the interior was familiar. Soaring ceilings, abundant light, a gated alcove full of bookcases. Everywhere he had lived, no matter how different, he had found just such a building. He was at home here. Safe. 

But statues of dragons lined the aisle, belching flames from their wide-open mouths. A woman sat on the Divine’s gold throne by the far wall, but she wore blood-red robes. 

“It’s nice to have a god.” Neria urged him forward. “It doesn’t so much matter which one. It only matters that you serve, and you’re good at that.” 

The woman on the throne was about his age and voluptuous. The crimson silk she wore outlined every curve and wrinkle of her figure, lush in a way that was both maternal and obscene at once. 

“No one is as brave as you are,” said the false Divine in a deep, echoing voice. Her plump breasts heaved and swayed with each breath. “No one is as devout as you are. Come closer, brave knight. You have earned a place at my side.” 

Cullen stepped onto the dais and dropped to one knee.

A golden collar materialized around his neck. The false Divine clipped a thick chain to it. She wrapped the loose end twice around her palm; it could not have been more than three feet long in all. 

“Now you belong to me.” She leaned down for a kiss. The graveyard stench of her breath made him recoil, sucking air through his open mouth to block out the smell. She seized his chin and pressed her thumb to his tongue, her swollen lips shining red. When he began to suckle, the false Divine turned black and her eyes flashed green like Rifts. 

The Chantry dissolved. 

Cullen found himself in a sumptuous hallway, but instead of exploring he closed his eyes and prayed. A demon had him in its grasp. It showed him lies and fed on his horror. He would deny the demon its food.

“If you stop, you’ll be trapped,” warned a reedy male voice.  

Cullen chanted louder. 

“I want to help,” said the voice. “Envy is hurting you. Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake.” 

_Mirrors on mirrors on memories_. Cullen blocked out the words. These were not true visions, not true desires. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just…” 

“I’m Cole,” said the voice. “I’ve been watching.” 

Cullen’s skin prickled. He could feel the intruder’s nearness even without opening his eyes. Drawing his sword, he swung it in a wide arc. He brought the blade to a halt a halt a hairsbreadth away from a pale, spotted face with tired eyes and a sad mouth, framed in lank hair the color of straw. 

“Outside a blade is falling,” said this scarecrow of a boy, staring unperturbed at the sword that threatened to cut him in two. “Hanging in the air like a sunset.” 

Cullen jolted. “Outside?” 

“You’re frozen,” said the boy. “We’re inside you. Or I am. You’re always inside you.”

“You’re not making any sense.” Though, oddly, that reassured him. Everyone else he’d encountered in this nightmare had been familiar, and they’d spoken straight to his soul. 

The boy was different.

“Envy is trying to take over,” said Cole. “To take your face.” 

To make a puppet of him. An abomination. 

“And you can help me escape?” 

“The only way out is through,” said Cole. “Do you understand? All of this is Envy: people, places, power. If you keep going, Envy stretches. It takes strength to make more.” 

“And Envy will tire.”

“Envy breaks down, you break out,” said Cole. 

The hallway that had materialized around him was palatial, with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and layers of carpets piled on the floor. A place where he could never feel comfortable. 

“But I don’t want to see any more.” Cullen swallowed. Of all the unwelcome truths he’d heard since this nightmare began, that might have been the most frightening. And he’d said it himself. 

If he hadn’t reached his limit, he would soon. A man can only bear so much.  

“You don’t want to want,” said Cole. “Want nothing, want for nothing. But that’s not how it works.” 

Cole turned and ran down the hall. Cullen sheathed his sword and followed. His feet sank into the deep pile of the carpet and he had to yank them up from the ground with each step, as though he were walking through mud. He saw himself on the Viscount’s throne in Kirkwall, surrounded by kneeling mages. Turned a corner and found himself back in Honnleath, standing idle on his porch while his neighbors worked the fields with backs bent. 

He barreled through the door of the his childhood home and into a bedroom in a high tower where Kit Trevelyan lounged on a bed of silks. She lay on her side, head propped up on one palm, wearing only a thin nightgown. 

“Sure, he’s good looking,” Kit said, “but he’s stupid.” 

A desire demon paced back and forth in front of the bed, its tail lashing furiously. Every inch of its body was familiar, from its curling horns to its cloven hooves. And the more human parts between, thinly veiled by scraps of ribbon. Something inside of him ruptured; the barrier, always inadequate, that had sealed away the part of him that had never stopped gibbering in fear. The part that made him shake and tremble even now. 

“Here is my deal,” said the demon. “Give him to me. I will take your shape, and you will have your freedom.” 

“Go ahead.” Kit’s gaze drifted to his and held it. “Suck him dry. I don’t care.” 

There was only one way forward, and he would take it. Gladly. He crossed to the tower room’s tiny balcony, climbed over the low wall, and jumped. His stomach flew up to his throat as he fell, and fell, and fell, until he landed at last in his own body. 

Lord Seeker Lucius’s sword hung in the air before him, like a sunset. 

Cullen parried and riposted. 

“I refuse,” he snarled, slamming the Lord Seeker back against the thick doors leading to Therinfall Redoubt’s Chantry. He yanked his blade free, slick with blood now, and drove it home again. Underneath the ribcage this time, to the heart. “You will not have me. You will _never_ have me.” 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** 'The only way out is through' is from a blog post Kristin Cashore wrote ages ago. She was talking about writing, finishing a book when it's a struggle, but I've adopted it for just about everything.


	14. he who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer post than usual. I didn't really want to run through the whole 'in hushed whispers' quest, but the stuff before and after is important, so it didn't seem right to skip it. And I didn't want to post a whole chapter where nothing interesting/new happens. So it's all here in a lump. 
> 
> Though I'm going to slow down a bit. I've got the next 4/5 chapters blocked out but a couple are not what they should be & I want to let them marinate a bit.

“This is a suicide mission,” said Solas. 

Kit winced. 

They’d gathered in Aileen’s cabin again, even though Dorian objected to the smell of fish. Not just once, when they’d entered, but every five or ten minutes. Theo, Bits, and Nina rounded out the group. They’d been trying to hammer out a plan for the better part of the afternoon and had succeeded only in exhausting themselves. Now they all slumped where they sat, mussed and wrinkled.

“You know it’s true,” Solas continued. “I won’t stop the rest of you from sacrificing yourselves, but Kit must return to Haven. We need her to seal the Breach.” 

“They won’t be admitted to see Alexius if I’m not with them,” Kit protested. “I have to go.” 

“But you cannot,” returned Solas. “You must find another way, or you must give up."

“He’s right, Kit.” Theo sat on the floor with his back propped up against the wall. He’d exchanged his Circle robes for farmer’s togs, a tunic and trousers, and a bit of stubble had begun to grow in on his scalp. “And it’s okay. We knew life outside the Circle would be harder than life inside it. We got ourselves into this mess, now we have to get ourselves out of it.”

A light rapping sounded at the door.  Aileen stood and opened it a sliver, blocking the visitor’s view with her body. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I have something to tell you,” said Fiona. She raised her voice and added, “ _All_ of you.”

Aileen twisted around and made a face. 

“Might as well let her in,” said Bits. “We weren’t getting anything done, anyhow.” 

Kit nodded, and saw others echo the gesture. Aileen stepped aside and Fiona walked through the door. She seemed so exhausted, her eyes ringed with dark circles, that Kit gave the Grand Enchanter her chair. 

“I went to visit Alexius at Redcliffe Castle this afternoon,” said Fiona, folding her hands in her lap. “While I was there, I was able to visit Conor Guerrin.” 

“How’s he doing?” Aileen asked. 

“He is frightened and angry.” Fiona smiled faintly. “If he were anywhere near a Circle right now, he’d be made Tranquil. Instead, he battles for control minute by minute and each victory is hard won.” 

“Who is Conor?” Solas asked. 

“Conor is Arl Teagan’s nephew,” Fiona answered. “He grew up in Redcliffe Castle. He knows it as well as anyone alive. When I hinted at the possibility of a rescue, he told me about a tunnel that leads from inside the castle walls to the old windmill overlooking the village. Underneath the lake the whole way, and known only to family.” 

Everyone in the room sat up straighter. 

“We can take as many people in as we need,” Bits breathed. 

“Sneak into the throne room,” said Theo. “Outnumber his guards two to one. Seal the doors.”

“And we’ll have him.” Kit whooped. “We can do this!” 

“Lady Fiona, I believe you have saved the day.” Dorian stood and bowed, the silver studs worked into his robes glittering in the warm lamplight. “Brava.” 

“I will enter the castle with Kit,” Fiona continued. “Alexius thinks me tame, so he will allow me to stay at her side. But I have more experience fighting in close quarters than anyone else here.”

“Thank you,” said Kit.

Fiona nodded graciously. 

“And I will join the mages in the tunnel,” added Dorian. “I must say, I cannot wait to see the expression on Alexius’s face. That alone might be worth the whole trip south. I expect it to be priceless.” 

“Solas?” Kit asked. “Is the new plan up to your standards?” 

The elf nodded. “So long as I, too, am allowed to accompany you.”

Kit grinned. “I think we can manage that.”  

***

 It all started off so well. The mages from the tunnel surprised Alexius’s guards while the magister was mid-gloat. The expression on his face when he saw Dorian really _was_ priceless. But something happened—a rift opened in the middle of the throne room, Kit’s gut wrenched, and then she was on her knees in a puddle of water. 

“I feel sick,” she announced. “Really, really sick.” 

“Please don’t foul the waters,” said Dorian. “They’re already murky enough.” 

“Ugh.” Kit wrinkled her nose. “I think there’s something decomposing in there.”

“I propose that we seek dry ground instead of enumerating all the vile substances that might be polluting the water we’re both standing in.”

“Ooh, someone’s got a smart mouth,” Kit quipped, standing and rubbing her damp hands on her trousers. They left trails of slime on the cloth. Disgusting. “Where are we? The last thing I remember was the castle. Alexius, a rift…” 

“First things first…” Dorian brandished his staff.

He moved aside so she had a clear line of sight through the door, where two of Alexius’s Venatori were likewise scrambling into action. She squeaked and shot a fireball, which flew completely off course and fizzled harmlessly against the dank walls. 

Dorian spared her a quick, contemptuous look before throwing a bolt of lightning that stunned both of the enemy mages and following it up with an explosion of fire that burned them to a crisp before they could move again.

“Have I mentioned that I’m not much of a fighter?” Kit asked.

“No,” said Dorian. “You unfortunately neglected to pass on that _extremely relevant information_.” 

“I’m getting better,” Kit said. “I’ve killed, oh, eight or nine demons now. A few of them without any help.” 

“Eight or nine,” Dorian repeated. 

“I’ve been feeling pretty impressed with myself,” Kit said. 

"And in less dire circumstances, you'd be perfectly justified." Dorian sighed. “I suppose I will have to rise to the occasion.” 

“I bet you’re good at that,” Kit snarked, tiptoeing up the narrow, dank stairs that appeared to offer the only way in or out of their flooded prison block. A guard patrolled the hallway above, staff in hand. Kit froze him solid before he spotted her. Dorian shattered him into chunks of frozen flesh before she could cast again. 

“You see?” He stepped in front of her. “I’m here, I’ll protect you.” 

They found more cell blocks on the next level up. The first one they entered had four cells, only one occupied. Fiona slumped against the wall, bloodless and weary, almost completely engulfed by red lyrium crystals. 

“Katherine,” Fiona croaked. “You’re alive… I saw you… disappear… into the rift.” 

“I am, but…” Kit reached through the bars and took the Grand Enchanter’s hand. “What’s happened to you?”

“Red lyrium. It’s a disease. The longer you’re near it… Eventually… you become this. Then they mine your corpse for more.” 

“This didn’t happen overnight,” said Dorian. “Lady Fiona, how long have you been here?” 

“How long?” Fiona passed a hand over her eyes. “It seems like forever, but it has only been a year.”

“A year?” Kit repeated, stunned. 

“Harvestmere,” Fiona said. “9:42 Dragon.” 

“I’ve figured it out,” Dorian announced. “Do you remember what I told you about Alexius’s experiments with time magic? He must have opened a temporal rift in the throne room, then used his amulet as a focus to move us through time.” 

“But are we stuck here?” Kit had paged through more than her fair share of forbidden grimoires, but she knew nothing about time magic. 

“If the amulet Alexius used to send us here still exists, I can use it to reopen the rift at the exact spot where we left. Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” Kit echoed.

“We might return. Or we might turn into paste.” 

Great.

“You must try,” said Fiona. “So much has gone wrong. Alexius is but a servant of the Elder One. The Elder One conquered the south with a demon army. Assassinated the Empress of Orlais. No one… challenges him and lives.”

Kit didn’t understand. Or she refused to, some sort of automatic defense mechanism. She’d bitten off more than she could chew before she arrived in Redcliffe. She tried not to contemplate the sheer, mind-boggling ambition of what she’d set herself to: freeing the mages, fleeing the Inquisition, saving the world from some sort of magical natural disaster. 

The thought of adding to it, making the problems bigger while she stayed the same… 

“I’ll do everything I can,” Kit said, mostly to end the conversation. “I promise.” 

Dorian led the way out, but instead of heading for the stairs that presumably led up and out of the prison, he continued on to the next cell block. Empty. 

“I have no idea what’s going on,” said Kit. “Who’s the Elder One?” 

“Some magister aspiring to godhood, I suspect. You know the tune.” He switched to a mocking falsetto, “Let’s play with magic we don’t understand, it will make us incredibly powerful.”

“But ripping a hole in time. Raising a demon army. It just seems so insane.” 

“Oh, it is,” Dorian assured her. “I don’t even want to _think_ about what this will do to the fabric of the world. We didn’t so much travel through time as punch a hole through it and toss it into the privy.”

They found Solas in the final cell block on the floor. He looked better than Fiona, though that wasn’t saying much. He was whole, at least, surrounded by a faint red haze from lyrium poisoning

“You’re alive.” He spoke on a tired sigh, as though even amazement required more effort than he could muster. “We saw you die.” 

“You saw us disappear into a rift,” corrected Dorian. “It didn’t kill us. It threw us forward in time. We’ve only just arrived, as it were.” 

“Can you reverse the process?” Solas asked. “You could return and obviate the events of the last year. It may not be too late.”

Dorian grinned. “You catch on fast.” 

“You would think such understanding would stop me from making such terrible mistakes. You would be wrong.”

Terrible mistakes? Did he mean bad life decisions in general, or something specific? Kit tucked the question away for later. 

“I believe that Alexius planned to remove us from time completely. But the ambush in the castle surprised him, and made him reckless.” Dorian worked the lock, swinging open the door. “So we live, and I believe that if we find the amulet that Alexius used to send us here, I will be able to open a rift that will send us back to the moment when we left.” 

“Then we must find this amulet,” said Solas. “And quickly.” 

They found no other allies. The prison cells gave way to torture chambers, many of them in use. Kit was… not shocked, exactly. She had found no shortage of evil in the world. Every mage had been the victim of a Templar who abused his—or her—power. Every single mage. But all the terrible people that Kit had ever met masqueraded as good. They wore shining armor, puffed up with righteousness. They called themselves champions of the just, and many of them believed it.

This… this was honest. Stripped of pretense. Rooms that reeked of rotting meat. Instruments of torture that had seen so much hard use they’d begun to fall apart, eaten away by rust and decay. Dead and mangled bodies tossed in corners for the rats to gnaw. 

It was a revelation because it was familiar. A difference of degree—and sometimes she thought that was the only kind of difference anyone could make in the world, so she didn’t discount it. But the Redcliffe of the future was very much like the world she had lived in all her life, only stripped of its disguises. 

They climbed out of the prison and got their first glimpse of the sky. Of what _had been_ the sky. The Breach had spread from horizon to horizon. The Fade poured through the veil, unmaking reality brick by brick.  Redcliffe Castle had half-dissolved, the ancient stone crumbling or just… floating away.

Kit licked her lips. She had wanted the Breach to swallow her whole. She still did. A part of her—not the smallest part—wanted to reach for the wound in the sky and let it take her. 

“This is why you must survive,” said Solas, pausing at her side. “This is why you must seal the Breach.” 

“I will.” She forced herself to look away. “I promise.” 

They worked their way through the castle proper, the servant’s quarters and the arl’s suites. Using up her mana over and over again left her feeling raw, as though her soul had been scoured with sandpaper. Her staff grew heavier and heavier in her grip; by the time they reached the door to the throne room, she could hardly lift it. But she gained confidence even as she lost her strength. Combat was a skill. She could learn it. 

Alexius himself didn’t put up much of a fight. He was one man; they were three. Or perhaps Dorian was right when he knelt at his former friend’s side and murmured, “He wanted to die, didn’t he? All those lies he told himself, the justifications…” 

“You loved him,” said Kit, thinking that Nina had been right. Standing with a near-stranger in a fight against a former paramour… she hadn’t understood exactly what kind of risk she was taking. 

“Once he was a man to whom I compared all others. Sad, isn’t it?” Dorian stood, a necklace dangling from his palm. “This is the same amulet he used before. I think it’s the same one we made in minrathous. That’s a relief. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used and I should be able to reopen the rift.”

The castle shook, rock dust falling around them like rain. 

“You don’t have an hour,” said Solas. “The Elder One is on his way. I will hold the doors.”

“Alone?” Kit asked. 

“I will do my part,” said Solas. “Now you do yours.” 

Kit had no idea how Solas managed it. The clamor of voices filtering in from outside the throne room increased minute by minute, but no one broke through. Finally the rift flared to life, Dorian took her hand, and they jumped.

***

For a moment, after they landed, the sound of their desperate panting was the only noise in the throne room. Alexius’s guards lay dead on the floor. Theo and Bits, along with a handful of battlemages Kit didn’t know, stared at them in shocked silence. 

And then the rhythmic clash of metal-shot feet marching in unison echoed through the hall. Kit straightened as twenty perfectly matched soldiers filed into the throne room two by two. They parted to reveal… Leliana. In a beautiful dress of blue silk, her hair smooth and shining, walking arm in arm with one of the most handsome men Kit had ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a big stern nose and a merry curl to his mouth, absolutely oozing confidence. Arl Teagan? But surely Ginevra would have mentioned…

“Your Majesty,” said Fiona in an odd voice, falling into a deep curtsey.

Oh. 

Oh _shit_. 

Kit had been outplayed. She had been thoroughly, grievously outplayed. The enormity of it stole her breath… but she bowed. To the fucking King. 

“Grand Enchanter,” said King Alistair. “We’d like to discuss your abuse of our hospitality.” 

But Fiona only gawked at him, speechless. Kit had never seen anything like it. She searched the room for a likely second-in-command. Nina, maybe, but she wasn’t here. And everyone else was looking right at _her_. Great.

“The crime was not ours, but we failed to prevent it.” Kit grit her teeth and dropped to one knee. “We submit ourselves to your judgment and beg most sincerely for mercy.”

“And you have it,” said King Alistair. “We will allow you a fortnight to leave Ferelden, and we will not pursue you beyond the borders. Stay past this grace period, however, and our mercy will run dry. You will be forced to leave.”

Kit winced. She knew their numbers and their resources. Many of the mages—especially the old, the infirm, the very young—would not survive another march into exile. 

“I see this news is hard for you,” said Leliana. “Perhaps I can offer a solution. The free mages can take refuge with the Inquisition… though in light of recent events, and the serious crimes that have been committed, I must exercise caution. You are all welcome to join us in Haven.” She paused, allowed herself a tiny smile. “As conscripts.” 

And there it was.

Hatred had a taste, Kit had found. Like ozone on her tongue, the air before a storm. It crackled under her skin, hot and itchy. If she were a lesser mage, it would have boiled forth in a torrent of fire. 

Kit rose carefully to her feet. She stood very, very still, with her hands clasped in front of her. 

King Alistair glanced at Leliana. “Am I missing something?” 

“I don’t think you miss much these days,” answered the spymaster, her voice warm with humor. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I knew I could count on you.”

The King’s expression softened. “It would be nice to see you when we’re not in the middle of a crisis, you know.” 

“Perhaps one day, when the world makes fewer demands of us,” Leliana answered. “Well, Kit? What will it be?” 

“We accept,” said Kit, the words bitter in her mouth. To think that she had condemned Fiona only days ago for making just such a demon’s bargain. 

She’d been content to walk away from the Inquisition. To let them go about their business while she attended to hers. No longer. She would free the mages and she would tear the organization to the ground. Person by person, until there was nothing left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Just throwing this out there, but: If Alexius is evil because he pressures Fiona into signing a contract that will force her mages into HIS military, and a conscript is someone who's forced to enlist in the military, what's the difference between what Alexius does & an Inquisitor who conscripts?


	15. pick your battles

"No mages in the tavern," said a helmeted Templar, barring the door with her plate-clad arm. "Madame de Fer's orders." 

"I won't be drinking," said Kit. She just wanted to plant herself somewhere loud enough to drown out her thoughts for a bit. The lunchtime crowd was kicking up such a racket she couldn’t hear Maryden’s singing; exactly what she needed. 

"The rule is that you don't go in," said the Templar. "Now get back to your camp." 

Kit sighed and began to shuffle away. She'd been kicked out of her padlocked cabin and sent to bunk with the other mages outside the walls. They’d received the same tents the army used, two mages to a tent. It could be a lot worse. All her favorite people were mages, after all, so given a choice she would actually _choose_ to spend time with them. She and Aileen had paired up and they traded stories and jokes into the wee hours. But the army separated the mages and the town, and Haven itself was becoming off-limits building by building. 

It felt like the beginning of the end. If she didn’t come up with a plan, it would be.

"Remember your place," hissed the Templar, bold now that Kit had proved obedient. “Fiend.” 

Kit turned back to the woman. "Pardon, ser. What is your name?" 

"Don't see how that's your concern." 

Kit searched the Templar for some distinguishing characteristic. A mole, a chipped tooth... anything she could use to identify her out of armor. She had pretty eyes. A lovely clear shade of blue, almost aqua. That would do. 

Lieutenant Rylan stepped out from the Tavern, flicking a sharp gaze between Kit and the Templar. "Ser Wentworth. Is there a problem?" 

"No, ser," answered the Templar. "Just reminding this mage here of the rules." 

Lieutenant Rylan raised an eyebrow at Kit. 

“I’m leaving, ser." Kit ducked her head, then added, "Though you might instruct your soldiers to enforce the rules without resorting to insult." 

"Insult?" Rylan repeated. "I take it you'd like to explain." 

"Ser... Wentworth, was it?" Kit smiled. A name, a distinguishing characteristic. That was enough to remember her by. “Ser Wentworth called me a fiend.” 

"Is this true?" Rylan asked. 

"Just my opinion," said the Templar. "She knew the rules. Shouldn’t have needed reminding."

“You can share your opinion when you’re off duty.” Rylan paused. “Though I don’t recommend it. You will apologize, Ser Wentworth.” 

Ser Wentworth spat a thick glob of phlegm at Kit’s feet. 

“And after you apologize, you’ll be on latrine duty for a week,” Rylan added. “Shall we go on, or will you do as you’ve been instructed?” 

Kit peeled off her glove and offered her glowing hand to Ser Wentworth. “Come on, you can do it. No hard feelings, right?” 

Ser Wentworth flinched away from the sickly green light. 

"Put your glove back on," snapped Commander Cullen, striding down from the infirmary area. "Ser Wentworth, a quiet watch like this is a test of _your_ abilities. A Templar who cannot resolve minor disagreements without incident is a Templar who cannot be trusted with more important tasks. Do you understand?” 

Ser Wentworth saluted. “Yes, ser.”

“And that apology?” Cullen prompted.

“I’m sorry, Your Worship.” Ser Wentworth stared at a point somewhere over Kit’s left shoulder as she spoke. “I shouldn’t have insulted you.” 

Ser Wentworth was not sorry, of course. She was angry and afraid and she'd soon learn to express it in ways that would not draw her superiors' attention. It was a cycle Kit knew well. And meanwhile, Kit would remember the knight. She'd warn the other mages. And she'd look for a chance to turn the tables. They did come along, now and then. 

“Ser Rylan, thank you for stepping in while you were off duty,” continued Cullen. “And Kit? Come with me. I was on my way to fetch you.” 

Kit tugged the glove into place and followed the Commander back up toward the Chantry. He'd been snappish ever since he returned from Therinfall. Even preoccupied as she’d been, settling in with the mages, she’d noticed. 

“We’re making the final arrangements for our assault on the Breach,” he explained.

“It’s an _assault_ now?” Kit asked. “Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?” 

“You may use whatever term you prefer,” he said shortly. “I won’t stop you.” 

“So no _assault_ on my word choice?” 

He stopped in the middle of the path. “Since we’re already having an unpleasant conversation, I won’t spoil it by asking about the last time we spoke. The night before I left for Therinfall. You intended to mislead me, did you not?"

“Mislead you?” Kit widened her eyes. “We had a nice chat. I gave you a carving. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You wanted me to be suspicious,” he pressed. “You wanted me to believe that you intended to steal back your phylactery, so that I would take it away from Haven as a precautionary measure.” 

Kit leaned a little closer, though he held steady. Stiff as he was, every muscle locked in place, she could feel the tension coiling beneath the surface. “Commander, it is not my fault if you jump to the most obvious conclusion and then sit on it like you're trying to lay an egg."

Cullen's bland expression fractured. What she saw in the split second before he mastered himself again... made her feel pretty awful, actually. She had touched an open wound. Jammed her finger in and twisted, more like. And, no, she wasn't going to lose sleep over hurting a Templar's feelings—not in this lifetime—but...

But nothing. What was she even thinking? He had her phylactery in his pocket. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. 

She picked up her pace, so that she stayed a few paces ahead of him the rest of the way to the Chantry. When she stepped through the doors, she found Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra waiting in front of the War Room. 

"Good, you're here," said Cassandra, closing the door once they’d all gathered around the War Table. "Commander Cullen has picked out a company of his best Templars and Vivienne is preparing lyrium potions for them right now. Once everyone is ready, we'll head to the Temple of Sacred Ashes." 

"Sounds like you have a plan," said Kit. "Good luck with that." 

"Do you have any questions?” Cassandra asked. “Solas told us you would not need any special equipment, but if there is anything we can provide… within reason, of course…”

“Oh, I’m just excited to see what you can do to the Breach with a bunch of Templars,” said Kit. “Should be an interesting experiment.” 

“Braska.” Josephine slapped her portable writing desk down on the table and rubbed at her temples. "I told you," she muttered. "What did I tell you?"

“If you will not go willingly—” Commander Cullen began.

“Of course I’m willing,” Kit interrupted. “So long as I have mages at my back, and not Templars.” 

"That is not your decision to make," said Cassandra. "We discussed both options and took a vote. It was unanimous." 

“I applaud your fair and balanced decision making process.” She was actually enjoying herself. A little too much, really. "It's a shame you didn't ask me, the one essential and irreplaceable element in this endeavor, if I had any objections.” 

“It is not your place to object,” said Leliana. “You serve the Inquisition now.”

“Well,” said Kit. “You can drag me up there in chains and point my hand at the Breach. See what happens. You never know.”

“We can do a great deal more than that—” Leliana snapped.

“I propose that we flip a coin,” Josephine interrupted. 

“Are you seriously suggesting that we let the fate of the world hinge on a coin toss?” Cullen asked.

"If we can all agree to abide by the results, then yes." Josephine didn't bother to hide her exasperation. "That is exactly what I think we should do.” 

“Flip the coin.” Kit bared her teeth at Leliana. She would win. She knew it absolutely. “Let the Maker decide, right?” 

Leliana laid her palms flat on the War Table and leaned over them, the dusky purple scarf she wore draped over her head falling forward so that shadows pooled in her eye sockets in a frankly terrifying way. “Very well. We will take heads.” 

Kit blinked. “I’m surprised to hear you admit it.” 

Cassandra groaned. “A pun? At a time like this?” 

“Just toss the coin,” Cullen said wearily. 

It came up tails. 

“Mages it is,” said Kit. “I wonder, though. In your opinion, Leliana, does that mean the Maker is on my side, or is he just not paying attention?” 

“Perhaps I should escort you out.” Josephine swooped past Leliana and hooked her arm around Kit’s waist. “I assume you have already selected a company of mages to stand with you?” 

“Naturally.” 

***

They understood the risks. All of them. First the possibility that the Inquisition Council would punish Kit’s friends in order to force her up to the Breach with the Templars. And then, just as terrifying, the likelihood that the Breach would kill the mages who accompanied Kit to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. 

All the mages who walked with her had volunteered. Some were old. Others, like Fiona, had fallen out of the community’s good graces and wanted a way back in. And a few of them, like Bits and Theo, were just a little crazy. 

Solas walked at her side. When they finally reached the temple ruins, he said, “The mages will channel their power through you. Wait until you can’t bear it anymore, and then let go. The magic will flow on to the Breach, intensified by the Mark—but you must direct it. You must will the Breach to close.” 

Kit shivered.

“Are you capable?” Solas asked. “If not, say so. Walking away right now will be much easier than facing the consequences of a lie.” 

_Was she capable?_ How did he know? No one else had guessed. They all thought she must be afraid. In truth, she couldn’t wait to feel all that power coursing through her again. 

She visualized the sky in Redcliffe. The castle dissolving, eaten away by magic. No… that was a bad idea. If she kept future Redcliffe in her mind’s eye, she might end up replicating it. 

Instead, she turned around and looked at the mages who’d come with her to the temple, each in turn. She needed to give them a victory. Something they could work with, use for leverage. If she failed, they’d bear the brunt of it. She had let them down once; she wouldn’t do it again. 

Good intentions weren’t enough. But rage? Yes, that would do. 

“I’m capable.”

Solas backed away. He addressed the rest of the mages; a minute later, the first of them flooded her with power. It made her feel stretched, like she’d overeaten. Every mage who poured his or her power into the funnel increased the discomfort until it was pain. Intense pain, though the sort that edged into pleasure. 

When at last her heart seemed ready to burst from the strain she raised her Mark to the Breach. 

The Veil opened. She stood between worlds, the Black City in front of her, an army behind her, enough power coursing through her to silence any regrets. Whatever she could dream, she could realize. Whatever she wanted, she could have. She was nothing—a speck, a prism—while the possibilities were infinite. She saw them like a gleam on the horizon, a mirage in the desert, beckoning her onward. _Chase, explore, discover_.

All that potential, and she'd come to snuff it out.


	16. let them hear you

Cullen had hugged—or emphatically shaken hands with—all of his lieutenants and the rest of the Inquisition Council before he noticed that Kit Trevelyan had fallen to her knees and begun to sob. 

He didn’t go to her; she would not find his presence comforting. Instead he stood back while two of the mages who’d helped seal the Breach—the handsome one with the shorn head and the plump, angry one—approached. Kit hooked her arms around their necks and pulled them down into a huddle. The two mages linked arms and held Kit in the shelter of their bodies, a protective unit, while Kit’s shoulders shook. 

What had Cassandra said? _You did not see her among her friends. She was quite warm_. 

Here was a woman who, when left to her own devices, frolicked in the snow and risked her life for her friends. Force her into a circle, however, yoke her to a cause against her will, and she was bitter, deceitful, and mean. Truth be told, he didn’t know anyone who had been improved by their proximity to a Circle. Everyone changed for the worse, mages and Templars both.

It was a terrible system. But he’d walked into homes where an apostate-turned-abomination had sheltered. He’d seen the bodies of friends, family, sympathizers. Not just once, but many times. If such tragedies could be prevented, even if the cost was high…

Cullen sighed and made his way down the Pilgrim’s Path to Haven. He’d succeeded in ruining his mood, if nothing else. While the rest of Haven celebrated, he brooded by the gates. What kind of man would he be, if he’d never become a Templar? A better one, no doubt. That wasn’t even a question. Lesser, in some ways, but he knew which way the scale holding his good deeds against his bad would tip. 

Kit finally arrived, walking between the two mages who had comforted her. She waved them into town and sat down on the pier by herself. 

She took joy in life, despite it all. He… didn’t. Sometimes he thought that even if he succeeded in quitting the lyrium, even if the cravings finally went away, he’d still end up like the doddering old addicts he’d met at the chantry in Greenfell, where he’d been sent after Kinloch. They were hollow from addiction, everything they’d been burned away by the drug. But he was doing the same thing to himself consciously, with intention. He was breaking the chains, digging out the rot, but he couldn’t say what would be left over when he was done. A shell of a man, probably. 

A line of torches flickering atop the pass through the mountains pulled him out of his churning thoughts. It expanded as he watched, grew until Cullen knew for certain that it could be no caravan or company of travelers. He grabbed hold of nearest guard on watch—standing at his post with an empty pint of beer, wobbling on his feet—and snapped, “Bring me Lieutenant Rylan.” 

The guard blinked owlishly.

“ _Now_.” 

“The scouts will come to me,” said Leliana, appearing at his side. “We’ll hear the news together.”

Rylan arrived shortly thereafter, and Cullen called a meeting with his lieutenants. By the time he’d ordered them to assemble every available soldier and to sort the sober from the drunk, the first of Leliana’s scouts had reached the gates, red-faced and panting. 

“A massive force,” gasped the scout. “Most of it still beyond the mountain.”

“Under what banner?” Cullen asked. 

“None.”

“None?” 

“Call the other scouts back,” commanded Leliana. “Before they’re overrun.” 

The young man saluted and ran off toward the woods, just as a tall, spindly figure climbed atop the crest of a nearby rise. His shape didn’t seem quite human, though that might have been a trick of the distance and the torchlight. Behind him, the line of torches had formed into a river of fire, narrow on the steep trails and fanning out into a broad, well-ordered column as it approached Haven. 

Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He glanced at the pier just in time to see Kit Trevelyan stand up on the rickety boards, face tipped toward the spindly man. Then, without a word or a gesture, she ran off into the darkness. Another escape attempt? She was quite the opportunist, wasn’t she? 

Cassandra arrived, sword bare and shield strapped to her arm. “Cullen, give me a plan. Anything.” 

“Haven is no fortress.” It was, in fact, completely indefensible. “If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle. Hit them with everything we have.”

“Understood.” Cassandra scanned the practice field. “Where’s Vivienne?” 

“Right here!” Vivienne answered, moving at an easy lope. “Where do you want the mages?” 

“Stay with the archers,” answered Cullen. “They fight from range and they already have tactics in place to send their arrows into the enemy ranks, and avoid the melee. Follow their lead.” 

“Understood.” She saluted with her staff and set off in the direction of the mage camp, still in her white silk robes and heeled boots.

He plucked a handful of sober soldiers from the ranks and formed them into teams to man the trebuchets. The other foot soldiers made a shield wall beyond the gates, with archers and mages perched on the watchtowers. 

The trebuchets fired just as the first enemy soldiers reached the walls. Two baskets loaded with rocks soared up, over the frozen lake, and into the slopes of the high snowy mountains on either side of the pass. The resulting avalanche sounded like thunder and buried half the enemy army in an instant. It was enough to even out their numbers—to give them a chance.

But luck was not on their side. 

A dragon rose up over the ridge, swooping along the road to Haven and clearing a path through the tumbled snow with its fiery breath. More and more soldiers moved into the pass as the dragon flapped its wings, gaining altitude, and then dived at Haven itself. It left a trail of devastation in its wake: cabins, tents, and palisades all on fire. 

That was it. The battle had only just begun, but they were all dead men walking. They had lost. At least they’d closed the Breach. The Inquisition had accomplished something during its brief existence; he didn’t need to be ashamed.

“To the Chantry!” he bellowed, though what good it would do he didn’t know. So everyone could die together, arm in arm? “Move it! Move it!” 

Kit reappeared, herding mages toward the gates. She’d gathered everyone Vivienne couldn’t use—the children, the very old. She circled round them, touching each person as she passed, urging them on… and throwing fireballs in between. Hulking, plate-clad warriors charged at her mages, but she killed anyone who moved within her range. 

Cullen stopped her with a light touch to the elbow as the mages reached the gates. “The villagers will need help if they are to survive this.” 

She nodded. “I’ll make a circuit.” 

He stayed by the gates for as long as was safe, helping everyone get inside. Almost as soon as they’d closed the gates, however, a terrible banging made the doors shake on their hinges. 

“I can’t come in unless you open!” called a familiar voice. 

Cullen nodded to the guard who’d only just let down the bar. It was lifted, the gates opened, and the boy from his nightmare at Therinfall stumbled through, just as thin and haggard as he’d been in the dream. This time, he carried a dagger in each hand and both dripped blood.  

“The Elder One is coming,” Cole announced. “I came to warn you.” 

“It’s a little late for that,” Cullen muttered. But he waved the young man through and signaled for the gates to be closed and barred, this time for good. They’d make a final stand. This Elder One would win, they couldn’t change that, but they could make him work for it. 

He retreated to the Chantry. He was the last one inside, but for two: Kit, singed and soot-blackened, half-carried Threnn toward the doors. 

“Our position is not good,” he told the rest of the Inquisition Council, when they surrounded him. “We lost whatever advantage we might have gained with the avalanche. The Elder One—I’m told this is his army—has come in numbers we can’t beat, with soldiers who seem supernaturally strong.”

“There must be something we can do,” said Leliana. “There’s always _something_.” 

“I'm sorry, Leliana. There are no tactics that make this survivable,” Cullen told her. “The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.” 

“We’d bury Haven!” Josephine cried. 

“We’re dying, but we can decide how,” Cullen said. “Many don’t get that choice.” 

Cole slipped into their closed circle, somehow making room where there was none. “The Elder One is here for the Herald.” 

“For Kit?” Cullen asked, searching for her. He found her lowering one of the older mages into a chair; she twitched and glanced over, meeting his eyes. 

He nodded. 

She patted the old man’s shoulder and trotted over. “What is it?” 

“The Elder One has come to kill you,” said Cole, very matter-of-factly. Then his voice took on a lilting, singsong quality. “No one else matters. He’ll crush them, kill them anyway. But he wants you.” 

Kit stared at the boy. “Yeah? He told you that?” 

“He didn’t have to… He’s inside-out now, I hear everything.” Cole snatched Cullen’s sleeve and tugged. “Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies.” 

“There is a path,” gasped the Chancellor. He clutched his side; he’d taken a wound to his lung, most likely. “You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me…” 

“What are you on about?” Cassandra demanded. 

“It was whim that I walked the path,” the Chancellor went on, as though he hadn’t heard her. “I did not mean to start, it was overgrown. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers… I don’t know. If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident.”

“Well, fuck this.” Kit stood still for a moment, rigid and brittle. Then she threw back her shoulders and said, “Go ahead. Get everyone out. I’ll buy you some time.” 

She headed for the Chantry doors, yanking one open, but Cullen stopped her before she could storm out alone.

“What of your escape?” 

She shot him a scathing look.

“Perhaps you’ll surprise it," he suggested. "Find a way.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Cullen gestured to his trebuchet team. “These men will handle the trebuchet. It will be up to you to keep the Elder One’s attention until the rest of us have had a chance to flee. We’ll light a flare when we’ve all climbed above the treeline.” 

Kit nodded, staring straight ahead. She wanted to shut him out, and he ought to let her. He had no right to her last thoughts, her last minutes. It was the least he could do, the meanest and most craven form of respect. But he couldn’t. Just once, he wanted to speak to that other side of her. The vivid, warm, unspoiled part that she protected from him—from _Templars_ —at all costs because _how else would it exist_? But she was about to die, and he was selfish. 

So he found the words. “Kit, if we’re to have a chance—if _you_ are to have a chance—let that thing hear you.” 

All of a sudden, the most brilliant smile lit her face. Open-mouthed, ear to ear, completely genuine. She stood taller, her dark eyes sparkled. The transformation took his breath away. 

“Mages!” she called into the Chantry.

Heads turned. Faces lifted. Hundreds of them in unison; even the children. 

“If you’re to have a chance,” she cried, at the top of her lungs, “ _let them hear you_!”

Many of the mages whooped. A few, the ones he’d seen Kit spend time with, simply bowed their heads. 

Kit turned and raced into the night, light on her feet, almost bouncing with each stride. She paused at the edge of the terrace, perched above the burning town, tents and cabins and supply crates all in flames. Tongues of fire leaped and flickered around her feet while she stood poised, rising up on tiptoe as she searched the sky. 

She looked like she was standing on a pyre. She looked—the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end—like every statue of Andraste he’d ever seen. 

Kit sent a spear of searing white light into the sky. She held the pose, arm upraised, and then shouted, “Hey!” 

He had to move. To help organize the retreat, get the villagers onto the path. But he couldn’t look away. 

“Over here, you pea-brained sky cow!” Kit called, as the dragon swooped toward her. “Come and get me!” 

She leapt off the terrace and disappeared into the fire and smoke. The dragon tracked her through the gates and away from the town. 

“You’ll be taking rear guard, Commander,” said Dorian, pulling him away from the door. “But even so, best not to dawdle.”

So he busied himself herding people along, nipping at heels and keeping everyone in line, moving at a steady pace. Once they’d got clear of the valley, Dorian sent up a flare. The dragon had landed by the lake, but that was all he could be certain off. Minutes later, another avalanche buried Haven. 

“It’s for the best,” said Leliana, falling back to walk at his side. 

“What is?” Cullen asked. 

“I would have arranged something, but this is better,” said Leliana. “She died a hero.”

“Are you saying…” Cullen froze. “You would have killed her?”

Leliana shrugged, serene. “She was a threat.” 

“Ten years ago, in Kinloch Hold, I called out for blood and you insisted on mercy.” Cullen paused. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to see our roles reversed.”

Leliana huffed. “I don’t know what you saw in her.”

Cullen hardened his tone. “Now is not the time.” 

“No. Even I know that we just witnessed something extraordinary.” Leliana looked down over the valley, a tiny furrow between her brows. Bits of the road leading in and out of Haven remained, but the rest had been erased. No fire, no bodies, no signs of human habitation at all. “For a moment, I truly thought I was looking at Andraste.”

“And if we both saw the same vision—Leliana, what part have we been playing in the story?”

 


	17. logic fails

She fought against consciousness, but her own rattling teeth woke her at last. She opened her eyes. A stone vault arched above her, gray and seamless. She had been so warm. Just moments ago, warm and deeply content. How had she ended up here, on her back in the snow? 

Before the warmth and the contentment, she had died. She was sure of that. Her last coherent memory was of being squeezed by a dragon’s claws as its sharp-toothed maw opened above her. 

Kit sat. She bore no souvenirs of battle: no injuries, no pain. No hunger, either. Just the hollow ache of an empty mana pool. And she lay in a crypt.

“This isn’t real,” she whispered, her voice too out of place to be comforting. 

But understanding brought peace, in a way. She took a deep breath. _It’s not a real breath. You’ll never breathe again_. She’d arrived in the Fade. Everyone came here, eventually. She had to get up and… pass through. On her way to the Maker’s side, or wherever else she might end up. 

Probably not the Maker’s side, actually. 

Kit stood and began walking. The crypt went on and on. Low stone ceilings, shallow alcoves, the profound silence of a house for the dead. She encountered no spirits, nothing animate, until she crossed paths with a demon. She tried to cast and failed. She didn’t have mana anymore… but the Mark remained. Because it was a kind of Rift that existed across planes. She raised her palm to the demon as it bore down on her. 

It dissolved in a flash of sickly green light. 

That settled it. She was certainly dead. She had never been able to manipulate the power of her Mark so easily when she was alive. She’d known, but… but she’d hoped. 

The crypt eventually gave way to a rickety tunnel of the sort that miners made. And _that_ emptied her out into a snowstorm. Winds whipped pellets of ice at her face, at her neck. Into her ears, down her collar. She was already frozen. How could she keep getting colder? It shouldn’t be possible. 

The tunnel she’d been so eager to escape, echoing and eerie, now seemed a refuge. But the snowstorm might never end. It didn’t have to, here in the Fade. She might spent eternity haunting a crypt, hoping another lost soul would appear to keep her company. 

Kit shuddered and staggered into the blizzard. 

It didn’t matter which direction she chose—the creature in charge of this region of the Fade would let her wander until it decided she’d had enough. She decided to head downhill, though even that wasn’t easy. She sank to her knees in soft powder with each step. Her feet went numb, and she grew clumsy. She stumbled and swerved as though she were drunk, when really she’d lost control of her own body.

_This isn’t real_ , she reminded herself. _You’re in the Fade, your body is as strong as you want it to be_. 

That helped. She trudged on grimly for a while, a puppet piloted by her own oddly disconnected will, but no matter how hard she concentrated she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. 

Her knees gave way, and she fell. _Get up_ , she told herself, for form’s sake. She did not try to get up. _You’re not really cold. You’re just being weak_. She crawled for a bit, but that was worse than walking. She couldn’t coordinate her limbs and ended up dragging herself along, sodden and achingly slow. 

A heavy weight on her back sent her scrabbling away, screaming and incoherent. Demons. She had no strength, she had no mana—she waved her palm desperately in the direction of the shadow that had fallen over her, but nothing happened. Giving up, she heaved herself away from the figures looming round, propelling herself into a clumsy roll. 

Strong arms picked her up, held her like a baby while she thrashed. 

“You’re safe,” said the man who held her. He buzzed with energy—with _lyrium_ —and her own magic sparked to life, as though it had forgotten how and only needed reminding. “You’re alive.” 

Kit stilled. Her harsh pants sounded as loud in her ears as the wind whistling through the trees. She knew that voice, cultured and gentle. 

_Cullen_. 

Templar. Inquisition. It didn’t matter. She clutched at him with the last dregs of her strength. He was covered in metal and hardly any warmer than she was, but he was alive. He had escaped; she had seen the flare. And this man—this _living_ man—thought _she_ was alive. 

Kit began to sob. Great dry heaves that made her ribs crack and brought no tears. 

“Shh.” He jogged her like she needed to be burped. “Everything will be fine. I’ve got you.” 

“I woke up in a crypt,” she gasped, the horror of it finally dawning. “ _I woke up in a crypt_.” 

This time she got no comforting reply. 

She fisted his mantle and buried her face in the coarse fur. A woman murmured nearby and she realized that Cullen hadn’t come alone, that she was showing weakness in front of people who would gladly take advantage. But she couldn’t stop clutching or sobbing any more than she’d been able to stand up, after her legs gave out. 

They were moving. Going somewhere, to a place where she’d have to be strong again. She couldn’t bear the thought, so she used the tiny trickle of mana that had pooled in her belly to sketch a warmth spell over herself. As the cold receded, exhaustion welled up. 

Cullen stiffened. Then, with a muted, “Maker’s breath,” he snuggled her closer and trudged on while she gave herself up to sleep.

  


 


	18. progress

She was back in prison. Or… something. Every time she opened her eyes Commander Cullen was sitting right next to her looking fierce. She didn’t open her eyes often, though, because even dim light hurt them. She lay shaking with fever on a thin pallet on a metal-frame bed that made her back cramp no matter how she turned and tossed.

She slept a great deal but never felt rested and couldn’t breathe through her perpetually stuffed nose. She was fairly sure that she’d died—it was the last really crisp and clear memory she had—and firmly believed that dead people ought not to get sick. It seemed unfair. But she could hardly rub two thoughts together in her current state.

Cullen kept stealing her food. Someone would come in, cup her hands around a bowl of broth, and then he’d snatch it away before she could start slurping. It was so bizarre. She tried to tease him but suspected it came out garbled. He didn’t laugh, in any case.

He’d give the bowl back, eventually. Cold and half-eaten. She had no appetite to begin with, and the fat that congealed on the surface of the soups as they cooled made her stomach sour.

“Am I still dead?” she slurred at last, trying to piece it all together.

“No,” said Cullen. “You’re alive.”

“Dreaming,” she concluded. One way or another, she was in the Fade. The real Commander Cullen would not steal the food right out of her hands. Behead her? Yes. Play petty pranks? No. Nor would he try to spoon-feed her, which this Fade-Cullen seemed determined to do. He had too much dignity for that.

“This is the most alert you’ve been in days,” he told her.

She wanted to argue, but didn’t have the energy. She fell back asleep instead.

***

She knew she was getting better when she finally, _finally_ figured out that he was testing her food for poison. Three days later.

***

_He_ figured out that she was getting better when she stopped holding his hand. She’d been clutching it, on and off, since he first picked her up out of the snow. Sometimes she stroked his fingers or tickled his palm; illness had a truly miraculous effect on her temper. Still, it felt like something he shouldn’t allow, if only because he knew that she’d be embarrassed about it later.

He tried. Sincerely tried. At first, when she reached for him, he gently but firmly placed her hand atop the layers of thick blankets they’d swaddled her in. Sooner or later her shivers and sniffles would subside into sleep, but once she began to stir she’d take his hand again.

Eventually, he realized that she stopped asking if she was dead while he held her hand. She’d been posing the question over and over again, every time she woke.

After that, he held on when she reached for him. She slept better, fretted less. He didn’t think himself special in any way; she didn’t recognize him most of the time. But he’d appointed himself her guardian—a message he hoped Leliana would heed—and so he was the one at her side.

He didn’t try to persuade himself that she was delirious, or work out some logical chain of events whereby she could have survived the dragon and the killing frost. He had given himself to the Chantry as a very young man and for all the many ways it had disillusioned him, he’d learned a great deal about faith. If she said she’d died, he believed. If touch tethered her to reality, he would offer his hand.

The day came when she opened her eyes and they were clear and sharp, full of intelligence. She looked at him and saw a Templar, an adversary, and she shoved his hand away as though it were diseased.

He told himself he was glad, and it was true. He would have suffered a great deal more than contempt to see her well again. But, Maker, he felt like a wretch.


	19. the dawn will come

The singing got her out of bed. It was just Mother Giselle, at first; Kit recognized that rich, velvety voice. Soon others joined in and Kit hobbled out to take in the spectacle. 

A sobering one, as it turned out. Their camp was no more than a disorganized cluster of tents huddled in the shadow of a high mountain. A few campfires surrounded by listless pilgrims and battered soldiers threw up meager flames; they didn't even _look_ warm. Only the infirmary tent generated any bustle, a sorry commentary on the state of the grandly ambitious Inquisition. 

No wonder the Grand Cleric was singing. The Chantry ought to make a motto: when the truth is ugly, paint a pretty picture. Or sing a happy song. If that seemed out of reach, at least a _hopeful_ one. Get everyone back in the mood to die gloriously or whatever.

Some of the pilgrims knelt in front of the Grand Cleric, weeping openly. Leliana’s voice stood out, clear and pure, and so did Commander Cullen’s. True believers pouring out their desperation, seeking communion in one another.

That, at least, she understood. In her own way.

Kit conjured a flame, blew on the little ball of fire to make it bloom, and raised her arm high. Nina was the first to copy her, then Aileen. More and more fires flared to life, rose to hover overhead, until she could have made a map of the camp by tracing a line from each to each. 

Since Anders had started this war the mages had lost, and lost, and lost. Every disaster, every death, pushed their already-hopeless cause a little further out of reach. But as long as she lived, she would fight. As long as she had friends, she would stand with them. 

Looking at the hundreds of tiny fires flickering around her, Kit knew she was not alone. 

And that was all the energy she had. Kit quenched the conjured flame as the song ended and stumbled back to her cot, too weak to lift the heavy blankets. Cullen came in a minute later, his mouth a tight hard line, tucked her in without a word and walked out with his fur-hackles bristling. 

She heard murmurs about moving that afternoon. Apparently they’d been waiting on her, which surprised her to no end, but now that she’d recovered practical necessity had reasserted itself. Their temporary camp provided poor shelter, poor foraging, and left them cut off from civilization. 

Which meant she’d better rest up while she had the chance. Trekking through the snow, in her current state, would set her recovery back a fair bit. So she was huddled defensively in the blankets, knees tucked up to her chest, when Solas lifted one of the tent flaps and peered inside. 

“Can I convince you to take a walk?” he asked. 

“Ugh,” said Kit. 

Solas crossed to her cot and placed a cool hand on her overheated forehead. An icy liquid sensation spread out from the point of contact, as though he’d emptied a jug of frozen syrup on her face. It had a stimulant effect; she didn’t really feel any better, but within a minute she was standing and pulling on her coat. 

“I am not impressed by your bedside manner,” said Kit, following Solas out into the snow. 

“Perhaps because you have been so spoiled by your current caretaker?” Solas asked, with a smirk. 

Kit scowled. Cullen no longer sat inside her tent like the world’s most dedicated watchdog, but he was always hovering nearby. He probably thought she was an abomination and wanted to be the one to cut her head off. 

Solas led her beyond the farthest tent and kept going, until they’d reached an icy clearing carpeted in virgin snow. They tracked footprints all the way to the center, spoiling the pristine beauty of the scene, and Solas positioned himself to face in the direction of camp.

“I take it from today’s display that your revolutionary fervor has not diminished.” 

“Not in the slightest.” 

Solas nodded. “But the mages have suffered a blow. Your numbers are reduced, you remain subordinate— _conscripts_ —you are in no position to mount a serious opposition, though the Inquisition is itself severely weakened.” 

Kit folded her arms over her chest. "Succinctly put." 

“There’s something I can do that will aid your cause,” said Solas. “But you must promise me a favor in return.” 

“How very _vague_.” She’d been trying to forget about the phylactery since he’d sacrificed his life for her in future Redcliffe. She’d wanted to kill him, he’d died violently for her benefit, so she’d pretty much gotten her wish. They were square. But that didn’t mean she trusted him. “You’ll do something, I’ll promise something. Could be a great deal. Could be a terrible one.” 

“It is neither,” said Solas. “I don’t believe you’ll object to my request, once I’ve made it, but I cannot explain unless you assure me that you’ll keep what I’m about to tell you absolutely secret.” 

It could still be a trap. There were plenty of secrets she’d be loathe to keep. But the chance to learn a little more about Solas, to do the mages some good… she’d take the risk. 

“Lay it out. Whatever you say stays here.” 

“The Elder One’s power derives from a magical orb; you probably saw it in Haven, when you confronted him outside the gates.” 

Kit nodded. 

“The orb is an elven artifact, ancient, of a kind my people can no longer create…” said Solas. 

“Elven?” Kit interrupted.

“Yes.”

“You’re certain?” she pressed. 

“Quite certain.” 

Elven. But the Elder One had been human, or almost human. And the Mark, the Breach... had there been something elven about that magic? Some flavor, some clue...? The Breach had felt malleable to her, energy in the midst of becoming, not fixed. Not... _partisan_. Maybe at some point power was simply power. 

“Don’t tell me you’d begun to believe yourself chosen by Andraste?” Solas asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Oh, Andraste can take a nap. No.” Kit rubbed at her palm, where a thick glove hid her Mark. “It’s just… do you know what it was made to do?” 

Solas tipped his head to the side. “Only its creator would know that, I’m afraid. Why do you ask?” 

Because she was starting to wonder what it was all about. Not just _Breach bad, must make go away_ or _Elder One bad, kill kill_. That was Chantry thinking, through and through. 

Maybe he was right to mock. She was starting to think it must all _mean something_. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Dying had scrambled her wits. “Go on. It’s elven magic. So what?” 

“I fear that, should the Inquisition Council discover the origin of the Elder One’s power, they will be… liberal, in casting blame.” 

“Any excuse, I suppose,” said Kit. Another good motto for the Chantry, if they were feeling honest.

“Just so.” Solas nodded. “I would like you to help me hide this information from the rest of the Inquisition.”

Huh. 

Not that she objected, precisely. But… _huh_.

“You realize this is a really suspicious request, right?” 

“You expect me to be above reproach?” 

“No. Of course not.” Kit laughed. “Though when I first met you I took you for some sort of wandering holy man. Free of all worldly possessions, dedicated to good works. I got it all wrong, didn’t I?” 

“Not _all_ wrong, I hope.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Kit narrowed her eyes. “Because you are _up to something_.” 

“We may have different goals in the end, but we walk the same road for now. And for some time to come, I imagine. Are you interested in my offer?”

“Of course I am.” Kit grinned. “Lying to authority figures and preventing the Chantry from meeting its usual quota of senseless violence are two of my favorite activities.” 

“Then tell the Council that you’ve found a safe place for the Inquisition to settle,” said Solas. “Tell them to scout to the north, and lead the way.” 

“Wait a second.” Kit sputtered “How does this help the _mages_? It sounds like you’re helping the _Inquisition_. That wasn’t the bargain.” 

“The Inquisition is in your debt, Kit. You closed the Breach. You ran out to meet the Elder One while the rest escaped.” Solas paused. “I’m helping you dig the hole a little deeper. It will be up to you to make them pay, when the time comes.”

Kit blinked. That was some cold calculation if she’d ever heard it. 

“Please,” Solas said gently. “You are not shocked.” 

“I’m a little shocked.” Kit fell into a coughing fit and sniffled. His get-out-of-bed magic was starting to wear off. “Let’s get back to camp, before I have a relapse.” 

 

 


	20. Opposition in all things

If the Council’s debate about whether or not to follow Kit’s request that they ‘scout to the north’ were any indication, the Inquisition was in serious trouble.

Leliana did not say a word during the entire discussion. Josephine sniffled—she’d caught the cold going around camp and looked increasingly bedraggled, scuttling around in a shapeless, fur-lined coat she'd borrowed from someone twice her size—and insisted, “This will set a poor precedent. We should explore all our options.”

“What _options_?” Cassandra demanded.

“Give me time to contact our supporters. Within a few weeks we could find a patron, negotiate for a new site to occupy—”

“Half of us will be dead by then,” Cullen replied. “Half of what’s _left_ , I mean. We already lost half of our people in Haven.”

“And that would be the end of the Inquisition,” Cassandra said. “If, that is, the Inquisition is not already over.”

Josephine set down her writing board, the candle burned down to a stub, and began to cry.

“Kit wouldn’t lead the mages to their deaths,” Cullen said. “I want to try it.”

Leliana swished out of the room. Josephine dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Cassandra shrugged and said, “Fine.”

And so it was decided.

They were a sorry lot, by any measure. Strung out through the mountains, carrying what supplies they’d salvaged on their backs. Every camp they set was smaller than it had been the night previous. Not because anything awful had happened, but because they were  so weary they began to crowd into the tents together, swallowing a few bites of cold supper before falling asleep in piles.

“You realize it’s terrifying, having you trailing behind me all day, every day,” said Kit, falling back to walk at his side on the fourth—or was it fifth?—day of this dreary procession. 

“I don’t mean to alarm you.”

“Are you waiting for me to turn into an abomination?” she asked. “Itchy sword arm?”

“What?” Cullen exclaimed. “ _No_. Absolutely _not_.”

She squinted at him. “What would you say if I told you I was feeling a little demony?”

Cullen huffed impatiently. “I’d tell you it’s a good thing I’ve seen the reality often enough to know that you are joking.”

“Hmm.” She breathed into her cupped hands and shimmered, momentarily, with fire magic. A warmth spell. Cullen folded his arms over his chest to prevent himself from reaching for her. She had been so cold when they first found her—cold as the snow she’d floundered in—and so warm after she’d cast the spell. It had been like carrying an oven in his arms.

“I want to thank you,” she said.

“I need no thanks.”

“You try not to need much, don’t you?”

Cullen stared straight ahead, not acknowledging the hit.

She touched his arm; a little spot of summer in the midst of winter. “You took care of me. You probably saved my life—”

“You saved all of ours,” Cullen interrupted.

“What I did took maybe an hour, and I didn’t have much choice,” she returned. “Look. I’m not saying I agree with you, or that I’m going to join your team or even stop hating everything you stand for, basically—”

“Do go on,” Cullen murmured dryly.

She grinned, but the merry expression faded and twisted until she looked like she’d just bit down on a lemon. “I think you try really hard, and you’re better than they deserve, and—”

Kit’s sour expression contorted even further. She was still... if not lovely, _charming_. Engaged and fully present and not hiding behind some mask. Cullen looked away, heat creeping up his neck.

“That probably sounds mean, but it makes me so mad, sometimes,” she continued. “What I should say is: I’ve done nothing to earn your kindness—”

“On the contrary—”

“I’ve been awful to you,” she snapped. “For perfectly valid reasons, by the way, but—are you listening to me? I’m still doing it. And you’re still trying to be fair. You are, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you are—”

She cut herself off with a gasp, her eyes going wide.

Cullen followed her astonished gaze to a massive fortress on an isolated outcropping of solid rock, perched over a frozen lake. A ring of towers studded the battlements, a great hall rising over the rest. It soared, elegant and impregnable, vast enough to serve as a settlement as well as a citadel, a siege engineer’s worst nightmare.

“—a good person,” Kit mumbled, before whirling around and shouting to the weary travelers, “Almost there!" 

She raced ahead, almost skipping through the snow on her way to the narrow bridge that spanned the gorge between the mountain and the fortress. 

 _A good person_? It was the last thing he would have expected to hear, from the last person he'd have expected to say it. And gave him more hope—the painful kind, hope like a shunt that pierced right to his heart and left an open wound—than the stronghold itself, and its promise of a new beginning. 


	21. old skills, new job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, let's get this out of the way: Kit WILL become the Inquisitor, but I am switching up the timeline. If I hadn't tagged it right from the start, I might have considered going in another direction, but I did tag it and I believe authors should keep their promises. So she'll get there. Eventually. 
> 
> You can probably guess when she'll get her new title, but hopefully not how.

Kit took advantage of all the unearned credit she got for finding Skyhold by reserving space for the mages. She knew better than to try for the great hall, which was both the grandest and in the best repair. Instead she laid claim to two of the towers, one to serve as living quarters and one for work and study—plenty of space, much more than they’d have gotten otherwise—and left the others to haggle over the rest. 

She managed to secure a room all to herself, though it had a large hole in the wall facing the mountains and wind blew through like volleys of razorblades. She set up a barrier, which required an uncomfortable amount of energy, and began filching bits of glass from around the fortress so she could patch it with a window. For the first time in a while, her skills were in high demand. Everyone needed her to help repair the furniture they scavenged. 

But Skyhold was one step away from being shunted back into a Circle, and they all felt it. 

They weren’t allowed to leave the fortress without permission, and with Vivienne in charge, permission was not forthcoming. Fiona and Nina jointly sat down and argued Vivienne into allowing mages into the tavern for an hour every other day. Vivienne insisted on Templar supervision and a two drink limit. 

Another bitter fight won them a similarly unsatisfactory compromise: Templars would not enter the tower the mages had turned into living quarters, but two would always be stationed by the doors leading in or out. And regular Templar patrols through the tower where they worked. 

Kit, Bits, and Theo exchanged meaningful glances as they crossed paths, carrying broken chairs and chipped tabletops. They need to rest and recover, yes. But every silent look was a promise, and the promise was: _Soon_. 

Skyhold probably extended as far underground as it did above ground, and Kit hunted those dirty, deserted passages for loot. She couldn’t guess how long it had been since the last residents abandoned the fortress, but they’d left some pretty nice stuff behind. She found a beautiful chest of carved, aromatic wood and a mirror large enough to hang instead of a picture, only slightly clouded. Real treasures. 

She was kneeling on the ground rubbing at the mirror with her sleeve when a light, lilting voice spoke behind her.

“I want to ask you something,” said Leliana.

Kit whirled to see the spymaster blocking the doorway. She stood straight with both hands behind her back, the scarf she so often used as a hood pooled around her shoulders. Her hair was duller than usual, a little lank, the only chink in her otherwise perfect composure. 

Kit's fingers went numb; she dropped the mirror she’d been holding, almost jumping out of her skin when it shattered. 

“What?” Kit cast a barrier spell over herself and then a second one, out of sheer panic. 

“About my scouts,” said Leliana. “After the first scout reported with news of the Elder One’s attack, I called the rest back to Haven. But I keep thinking, if they’d stayed in the field, they could have bought us more time.” 

“What?” Kit repeated, laying a fire ward on the ground between them. 

“I was afraid to lose my scouts,” said Leliana, raising her voice. “But instead we lost Haven.”

“Are you…” Kit pressed hard on her ribs. Her heart was trying to pound its way out of her chest. “You want my _opinion_? About your scouts?” 

“You’ve never hesitated to be honest in the past,” said Leliana, stepping inside and circling around the ward without ever taking her eyes off of Kit.

Kit hopped over the chest of aromatic wood and edged toward the door, matching each of Leliana's steps with one of her own.

“Please,” said Leliana, which was almost as frightening as all the rest combined. 

“All right.” Kit glanced toward the door again. Just one more step. She’d feel so much safer if she could take just one more step toward escape. “You think… you should have…”—she was too frightened to think straight—“left your scouts to die? Is that the question?” 

“They could have made a difference. Haven might have had a chance.”

“The _dragon_ destroyed Haven, Leliana,” said Kit, feeling stupid. 

“Yes, but…” Leliana frowned. “What if they’d been able to flush the dragon out earlier? Given us warning? We could have begun the evacuation before it came so close.” 

That _would_ have been handy.

“It’s my fault we lost so many,” Leliana concluded. “Because I was afraid to lose my agents.” 

“I’m just…” Kit cast another barrier spell on herself—not that it served any purpose other than calming her nerves—and rubbed her face in her hands. This constant barrage of _completely un-be-fucking-lievable_ events was starting to wear her down. “Okay. Let’s think this through. _Maybe_ one of your scouts would have been able to flush the dragon before dying. And _maybe_ after the dragon showed itself, Roderick would have been alive and willing to speak up about the hidden pathway out of Haven. And _maybe again_ you and the rest of the Council would have listened. And, yeah, _maybe_ a few more people would have been able to escape, and _maybe_ the difference would have been greater than the number of scouts you lost…” 

“You see?” Leliana said, oddly hopeful. “If I’d only held firm… we could have saved so many more.” 

“Yeah, _maybe_.” Kit shrugged. “Seems like an awfully slim chance, but why not throw away the lives of friends and colleagues in order to save yourself a little second guessing later, right?” 

“That’s not—”

“Of course it is,” Kit interrupted. “I don’t get it. You feel bad about people dying, and you think you’d feel better if only you could go back and… kill them yourself? What kind of sense does that make? I mean, all the sense in the world if your only goal is to feel like you’re in control of the situation.” 

Leliana winced. 

But Kit was on a roll, now. “You know what _would_ have helped?” 

“Tell me,” Leliana demanded, breathy with enthusiasm. 

She was being so _weird_. This whole situation was _weird_.

“Figuring out that the Elder One was on his way days in advance. Or, better yet, _weeks_ in advance.” Kit tapped her chin thoughtfully. “If only you’d had some _warning_. Some _clue_ that you could have followed up on. Like, say, when I came back _from the fucking future_ to tell you about the maniac with the demon army.” 

Leliana crossed her arms, some of her usual self-assurance reasserting itself. “Take the word of a rebel and a Tevinter…” 

Kit raised her eyebrows. 

“You’re right.” Leliana wilted again. Her lower lip began to tremble. “I should have listened.” 

“I can’t take this any more.” Kit took one last longing look at the carved chest, which would have been perfect for her clothes. “Thanks for, uh, taking the time Leliana but I’m going to have a heart attack if I don’t leave right now.” 

When she’d gotten halfway through the door and Leliana hadn’t made any move to follow, Kit broke into a run. She hurtled down the hallways and careened around corners, took the stairs three at a time, until she reached Skyhold’s upper courtyard. 

She had a tear in the fabric of reality fused to her own hand. A man who walked around with half of his internal organs exposed to the elements somehow had enough sheer physical strength to pick her up and shake her like a rag doll. Said man's pet dragon had killed her and she’d come back to life. And now the Left Hand of the Divine had come to her for _advice_? 

Either it was the end of the world or she was losing it. 

“Hey there, Pepper,” called Varric, sauntering over. “You been running laps?” 

“Wouldn’t that be nice and normal.” Kit laughed, breathless after her mad dash through Skyhold’s underbelly. “Let’s pretend the answer is yes.” 

“Now I’m curious.” The dwarf gave her a once over, eyes sharp despite his jovial tone. “What were you really doing?” 

“Going mad, one day at a time.” Kit eyed the tavern and nearly wept with longing. “It’s times like these when I really hate Vivienne. What can I do for you?”

“Why don’t we, ah, _step aside_.” Varric jerked his head toward the smithy, where the constant ringing of hammer on metal discouraged loitering and created enough ambient noise to make life difficult for eavesdroppers. “I was talking to Sparkler and he told me how you met him in Redcliffe. That you spoke to him and slipped away before the rest of us arrived in the Chantry." 

Kit raised her eyebrows, displeased. “He told you that?” 

“Don’t blame Sparkler, he didn’t mean any harm,” said Varric. “He said you told him to make his case to the Seeker, that he could count on her to deal fairly with him, but that you’d help if she didn’t come through.”

“And?” 

“He was impressed. No one else in Redcliffe wanted to hear what he had to say, but you took him seriously and gave him the best advice you could.” Varric scratched at the stubble on his neck. He had a five o’clock shadow by noon most days; Kit was finally understanding why so many dwarves gave up the fight and grew beards. “It meant a lot to him.”

“Oh. I didn't realize—thanks for letting me know.” 

“I’m kind of hoping you can offer _me_ a deal like that,” said Varric. 

“You need help with something?” 

“Maybe. Maybe just a second opinion.” Varric paused. “From someone who I can count on to be honest. And—well, keep a secret or two.” 

“Sure.” Apparently this was her new job. Kit Trevelyan: Confidante to shady individuals. She ought to hang a shingle; make it official. “One secret in the vault and an honest opinion. Try me.” 

“It’s probably better if I _show_ you. Think you can spare a few days away from Skyhold?” 

“I’d love to, but I doubt Vivienne will give me leave. Especially if I can’t explain where I’m going or why.” 

“Oh, I’ll take care of the Iron Lady. Don’t you worry about that. Pack some things and meet me by the gate at sunrise.”

That seemed optimistic, but she played along. “You going to tell me what kind of weather I should pack for?” 

“No, not even that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized as I was writing this that I made a mistake with Leliana earlier in Haven--during the scout conversation she says that she pulled her scouts back when the first failed to report, and I have her pulling the scouts back after the first one reported. 
> 
> The game's way makes it a little easier to understand her POV--if there's a problem, she has no idea what & yet her response is to pull the scouts back, no wonder she's feeling guilty. I thought about changing the Haven conversation & pulling this scene in line with the game, but the mistake ended up working in my favor. Still, mea culpa.


	22. nothing that He has wrought shall be lost

Cullen walked into the new War Room. They had a new war table, grander than the old. A map as beautiful as it was accurate spread across the length and breadth of the table, every town marked and named, roads and rivers crisscrossing a landscape shaded in gentle tones of blue and green and taupe. 

A fine piece of work—and no one to appreciate it. 

By now, he expected the room to be empty. He’d brought a book—a history of siege warfare, which seemed relevant to their current situation—which he paged through until he'd found his place and began reading. 

Half an hour after the meeting had been scheduled to start, Vivienne sauntered in.

“Well.” She sniffed. “I see we’ve been busy.” 

Cullen closed the book over his index finger. “Anything to discuss?” 

“The mages are behaving like spoiled children, as usual.” She waved her hand in the air, rolling her eyes. “They are a trial, but nothing I need bring to your attention.” 

“Please don’t hesitate,” he replied mildly. “We all do better when we share our concerns.” 

“What do you make of our new home?” Vivienne asked. “Better from a military standpoint than Haven, certainly.”

“Much,” Cullen agreed. “I’m working with masons to patch the walls, to get rid of holes and shore up weak spots. And some of the pilgrims who’ve come to the fortress want to join up. We’ll recover.”

Vivienne scanned the empty room, making a tsking noise. “Where did Cassandra go again? I thought she, at least, would stay until the bitter end.” 

“Seeker business, apparently. She took Dorian and Solas with her—and the spirit boy, Cole.” 

“Really? And now Varric is about to leave, too.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Cullen. “For all his jokes, he seemed committed.” 

“Not permanently, my good knight. On urgent business of some kind. He’s taking Katherine Trevelyan with him, so I expect that Skyhold will see some much needed peace and quiet for the next few weeks.” 

Varric and Kit? “I didn’t think they were friendly.”

“Which is the only reason I trust him to keep an eye on her,” said Vivienne. “Any word from Josephine?” 

“Not yet.” Though if she’d sent a raven, he’d have no idea. Since Leliana had abandoned her post, they had no one to sort through their correspondence. And nobody had dared to appoint a replacement—who could they trust? 

“It might be time to start wondering if our lady ambassador will _ever_ return from Val Royaux,” said Vivienne. “I’d be sniffing about for a new position, in her place. In fact—not to alarm you—I _am_. The Inquisition is floundering, Commander. You weren’t much when I joined, but you had promise. Now that’s dwindling away. Rather rapidly, in fact.” 

“Thank you for the warning,” said Cullen, dryly. 

“I would hate for you to accuse me of treating you shabbily.” Vivienne propped a hand on her hip, chin up. A faint, unkind smile ghosted across her full lips. “But perhaps you’ll bail out the sinking ship. Stranger things have happened.” 

And with that parting shot delivered, she turned on her heel and walked out. 

Cullen followed, though more slowly. Nobody had invited Vivienne to join the Council; she’d simply shown up. And since Josephine had left for Val Royaux, both to bolster the Inquisition’s reputation and investigate the unrest in Orlais, and Leliana had disappeared without a trace, neither Cullen nor Cassandra had protested. 

He was glad they’d allowed it, if only because it gave him more insight into how she led the mages. He was not impressed. 

But Vivienne was right about the Inquisition. They _were_ floundering. The Breach had given them purpose, but now it was sealed. A new enemy had revealed himself, hatching plots from one end of Thedas to another, but they didn’t have the strength to fight him. Skyhold was a fortress, a place of strength, but it was also remote, a place where the Inquisition could fade into irrelevance.

And meanwhile, they hadn’t _begun_ to address the problems that had convinced Divine Justinia to declare an Inquisition.

Sunlight struck his eyes like an icepick when he stepped out of the great hall onto the staircase that led down to the upper courtyard. He paused, rubbing his temple. The withdrawal symptoms had been getting worse. 

Kit sat astride the retainer wall that divided the upper and lower courtyards, giving her a view of each. She wore trousers and a sort of sleeveless, lumpy tunic of thick wool, her hair loose for once, a shining tumble that swayed with the wind. She swung her legs, like a child would, and looked to be eating an apple. 

So Varric would be taking Kit out of Skyhold, and Vivienne didn’t know where or why? Vivienne was a clever woman, but apparently not so clever that Varric couldn’t hoodwink her. 

He waited for the pain to recede before he descended the stairs and crossed to Kit. “Can I ask you something?” 

Kit groaned. “You, too?” 

“‘Me, too’ what?” Cullen asked.

“Leliana started a conversation with almost the exact same question earlier today.” 

Cullen bit back an exclamation. He was not so foolish that he’d tell a woman constantly on the brink of revolt that no one else had seen or spoken to the spymaster in days. “That’s… unexpected.” 

“It was _so_ _strange_ ,” Kit agreed. “And then Varric, too. So now I’m going to start charging for all my opinions.”

Cullen smiled. “How much?” 

“You have a copper on you?” 

He dug into his pocket. He didn’t carry loose change, as a rule, but he had something else… He closed his fist around her phylactery, hesitating, then tossed it to her. “Will this do?” 

She dropped the apple to catch it, fumbling with both hands. “Is this a joke?” 

He wanted to ask her about Varric’s plans, find out where they were going. To remind her of the mages who remained at Skyhold and insist that she come back for their sakes, if nothing else. 

But he also wanted to let her choose. She’d sealed the Breach. The rest had to be voluntary. 

“No,” he said. 

The look she gave him right then—it was like food or water, the way it filled him up. He could have lived off of it.

“You can have all the opinions you want,” she told him, and something about the directness of her gaze, fervent and unabashed, made him think… that she wasn’t just offering an opinion. 

He swallowed. 

“What do you think of Madame Vivienne?” 

Kit rolled her eyes and the moment passed. “You know what I think of Madame Vivienne.” 

“Her leadership,” Cullen clarified. “She has charge of the mages. Is she executing her duties well?” 

Kit shrugged. “She does everything well.”

“No complaints?” 

She squinted up at him. “She’s got us back to Circle life, or as close as she can manage it. Isn’t that exactly what you want?” 

Before Haven had been destroyed, he would have answered ‘Yes’ without a second thought. It was still his first impulse—mages were _dangerous_. But he had seen a vision, witnessed a miracle. The Maker _had_ extended his hand to Kit, protected her. 

Would the Maker really send someone to undo all His own work? 

 _Faithful_ and _obedient_ did not have to be the same thing. After everything that had happened—after Kirkwall, after Kinloch—he owed it to himself to make up his own mind. 

Another spike of pain behind his eye momentarily blinded him. “I need to get out of the sun,” he said, dodging the question. “Take care of yourself, Kit.” 

And while she was away from Skyhold, perhaps never to return, he’d set the place in order. If the rest of the Council had abandoned their posts and left him holding the reins, then they could grin and bear it if they didn’t like where he led. 


	23. compare and contrast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting more frequently for this jaunt to and from Crestwood, to cut down on the wait between chapters where Kit & Cullen interact. 
> 
> I'm working *mumblemumble* chapters ahead & I have finally, finally gotten them to kiss. Like, once. It's like watching ketchup pour out of those old glass bottles. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this lengthy detour.

True to his word, Varric met her at the portcullis at dawn, carrying a permit signed by Vivienne granting her passage out of Skyhold. 

“How’d you manage that?” Kit asked, as they tromped side by side along the bridge. The sky looked like sherbet, layers of peach and lemon bleeding into one another where the sun crested the eastern range, with the last deep blues of the evening still vanishing in the west. 

“I’m a pretty smooth guy, Pepper. Haven’t you noticed?” 

“I think I might start paying more attention,” said Kit. “Because I am _impressed_.”

Varric buffed his nails on the lapels of his brocade coat, which made Kit laugh.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re headed?” 

“Crestwood,” Varric answered. “Hope you don’t mind rain.” 

“I _really_ like not being cooped up against my will in an isolated fortress,” said Kit. “The rest is gravy.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” said Varric, a little sourly. “Because I have the impression we’ve got bad news waiting for us at the end of our journey.” 

Kit kicked a rock out of her way, watching it skitter off the narrow mountain path and tumble toward the lake. “What other kind is there?” 

“Don’t talk like that, you’ll make me nostalgic.” Varric sighed gustily. “Good old Kirkwall. Nothing good ever happens in that city, but I love it anyway.” 

“I read _Tale of the Champion_ ,” said Kit. “Reading about Kirkwall kind of reminded me of living in a Circle.” 

“Oh?” Varric asked. “How do you figure?” 

“Being scared all the time,” said Kit. “Violence that seems to come out of nowhere; you can’t predict anything except that there will be more of it. Trying to help and never doing any good.” 

“Yeah,” said Varric. “That _does_ sound familiar.” 

“But you had the Hanged Man, you made some good friends,” Kit continued. “No matter how bad things get, we look for bright spots. Something to keep us going.” 

“What was your Hanged Man?” Varric asked.

“Oh, the workshop—all the enchanters shared it. I told you that I used to be close to the First Enchanter? Glynnis? She taught us to make our own toys because the Chantry never sent us any. Some of us kept at it, over the years, and that made Glynnis happy. She made sure we had a place to work, enough materials to keep us busy.” 

“Toys? What kind?” 

“Simple things at first. Blocks and dolls and boxes. By the end, though—I made all kinds of things. I can blow glass, polish stone, carve wood…” Kit trailed off. “I sent a few things home to my family, when they let me, but the Chantry took took most of what we made and sold it. They said we were no different than Tranquil making runes.” 

“So you never trained as a battlemage?” 

Kit shook her head. “You miss your Kirkwall friends?” 

“Most of them left Kirkwall,” said Varric. “And this new gig… I know you’re not big on the Inquisition, but I want to see it work.” 

Kit grunted.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Varric. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. How about… I know the head honchos have been trying to keep it quiet, but you want to tell me about this rumor that you died in Haven?” 

“I think I _did_ die,” said Kit. “Though I suppose the truth is I don’t remember, any more than I remember what happened at the Conclave. One minute I was… going somewhere… on my way to something… and then I was waking up in the dungeon with Cassandra and Leliana yelling at me.”

“So what’s the last thing you remember in Haven?” Varric asked. 

“The dragon had me in its claws,” said Kit. “What do _you_ think happens next?” 

“Hard to see that turning out well,” Varric acknowledged.

“And then I woke up in a crypt. How did I get there? Did I find it myself? Did someone put me there?” Too many questions, not enough answers. “Why’d you name your crossbow Bianca?” 

“Sorry, Pepper. Bianca is only story I can never tell,” said Varric. “But here’s one you’ll like. A story about Curly that didn’t make it into the book. See, one of Blondie’s—Anders’s—projects was to help apostates leave the city. But he had a reputation, the Templars kept an eye on him, and these apostates were too scared to go to his clinic for help. We had to come up with a way for them to make contact with Anders, something the Templars wouldn’t sniff out.” 

Kit nodded, following along easily. 

“Now, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Curly—he’s got his habits. And around this time, he started seeing a potter. She had a wheel that she set up at the front of her shop with this sort of foot pump to make it turn, and she’d throw pots all day to attract customers. Which—boy did she ever attract customers. Beautiful woman sitting on a stool with this wheel between her legs, rocking a bit to keep it going, her hands full of wet clay.”

“This is the most obscene thing I have ever heard you say, Varric.” Kit laughed. “It’s downright graphic.” 

“I’m toning it down, I swear,” said Varric. “Curly stopped to watch her throw a pot one day and next thing we knew, he was visiting her every night.”

“Really?” Kit blinked. “I hadn’t pegged him for such a smooth operator.”

“Oh, he isn’t,” said Varric. “But the _potter_ was. I don’t think Curly knew what hit him. And—I know you’re waiting for me to get to the good stuff, I promise we’re almost back to Anders and the apostates—every time he went to see her, he’d stop at a flower shop around the corner and buy a gardenia.” 

Kit smiled. “How sweet.” 

“But also a little strange. I mean, every single time? So we tried an experiment. We bought up all the gardenias from this shop. And when Curly showed up, instead of just buying a different flower, he went halfway across town to a different shop where he could get a gardenia.” 

Kit wrinkled her nose. “Okay, that is a little odd.” 

“I don’t get it either,” said Varric. “But the owner of this second flower shop was a friend of Merrill’s. So we spread the word that an apostate who wanted to escape should buy up all the gardenias at the first shop and then wait at a designated location. Curly would stop by the first shop, then go to the second shop, and Merrill’s friend would send word that he’d been by…” 

“So Anders would know that he had a mage waiting for him,” Kit finished. 

“Curly was our messenger for almost a year, and he never knew it,” said Varric. “And of course nobody thought he might be the link—he would never have done it on purpose.” 

Kit started laughing. “I doubt if I can top that one, Varric, but I’ll try.”

She told him about the rivalries at the College of Enchanters. He countered with a story about Isabela smuggling guano, which apparently made very good manure but was subject to high tariffs in Antiva. They were both hoarse before they ever reached Crestwood. 

 


	24. And there, He dwelled, waiting

“You wished to see me, Commander?” 

Cullen looked up from the letter he’d been writing. Lace Harding stood in front of his desk, fresh-faced and freckled. Perhaps the most competent person he'd ever worked with, and she made it look easy. 

He rifled through stacks of paper until he found the report on the Fallow Mire. 

“A group of scouts have been taken prisoner in the Fallow Mire,” he said. “I’d like you to lead an expedition to locate and free them. The region is said to be plagued by undead; choose your company carefully.”

Harding took the report and saluted, trotting out of the room. 

Cullen returned to his letter. He’d begun sorting through the mess of correspondence that had been piling up in Leliana’s absence, and found several warnings about Grand Cleric Iona of Cumberland. She’d been agitating against the Inquisition, apparently, part of a campaign to see herself elected the next Divine. 

He might have preferred a show of force, but they weren’t yet back to full strength and Josephine was already in Val Royaux. So instead he summarized everything he’d learned for the ambassador, in the hope that she’d be able to find a diplomatic solution before returning to Skyhold. 

“Commander?” 

This time the visitor was Delrin Barris. 

“Good. You’re here.” He plucked the brief he’d prepared from underneath a paperweight. “We’ve had reports of blood mages in the Wending Wood. I’d like you to take a few Templars to investigate. I’m sending you personally because I can count on to think, and think well, before you act. Get to the bottom of the problem and don’t be rash. We’re knights, not brutes.” 

“And if the rumors are true?” Barris asked, accepting the brief.

“Eliminate the threat.”

Barris saluted and left the office. 

Cullen finished his letter to Josephine and placed it atop a stack of other messages ready to leave Skyhold. He tucked the bundle under his arm and stepped out onto the battlements. Clouds veiled the sun, presaging a storm; he’d find a fresh coat of snow on the mountains in the morning. Silver edged the dense gray of the thunderheads but the frozen lake lay completely in shadow. Sunset came early in the mountains, and twilight lasted for hours. 

He made his way to Requisitions to check on Ser Morris, who was new to the office and just settling in. Reassured on that count, he headed for the great hall. A shabbily dressed but well-built young man called out his name as he crossed the courtyard.

Cullen stopped to hear him out. 

“Thank you, Commander.” The young man jogged to a halt, bright eyed and hopping from foot to foot with nerves. “There’s something you should know. I found bandits stalking your patrols. I’d have tried to stop them, but they have swords, and I don’t. If you have extra—or I could show your people where they are—”

“Do you you think you can manage on your own?” Cullen asked.

“Absolutely. I want to help! A few of my friends and I—we could make a whole crew.” 

"And what's your name?"   
  
"Sutherland, Ser," he answered.

“Speak with Ser Morris in Requisitions,” said Cullen. “Tell him I’ve authorized him to outfit you and your crew. Prepare an after action report when you’ve dealt with the bandits. Any of my lieutenants will be able to explain the proper format, but deliver it to me yourself.” 

“Oh, thank you.” The young man clicked his heels together, more exited than anyone ought to be at the prospect of killing desperate and dangerous men. Well, he’d learn. “I’ll do just as you say!” 

Cullen climbed the stairs that wound round the rotunda. A few of the ravens clucked and rustled as he reached the top. He checked them one by one for new messages; he wasn’t familiar enough with the birds to tell them apart by sight alone. Then he refilled the dishes with seed, setting off a chorus of squawking and flapping, and sat down to read. 

News from abroad put his worries about the Inquisition in perspective. Ferelden still struggled to reclaim farmland lost to Blight, and now King Alistair had reached out to ask if the Inquisition would send the Herald to close rifts—he did not seem to be aware that he had _met_ the Herald, and failed to make a friend of her. Orlais had descended into civil war, and the Empress had lost control of whole regions within her vast territory. Merchants had gone missing in the Western Approach while smugglers lurked in the Emerald Graves.

Amidst all the alarm and the intrigue were terse messages about vanishing rifts. By plotting them on a mental map of Ferelden, Cullen had been able to track Kit and Varric’s progress east around the northern shore of Lake Calenhad and into Crestwood. 

Phylactery or no phylactery, she and Varric left a trail. He could set spies on the pair, ask them to eavesdrop and uncover their purpose, have them follow Kit once she made her escape. 

He didn’t. 

If she wanted freedom, she could have it. It went against every one of his beliefs and all of his training, but he knew he’d made the right decision. He’d have to consider the implications of what he’d done—there was one word to describe leaders who played favorites in this way, and it was ‘corrupt’—but not yet. 

When Josephine had suggested tossing a coin to find out who would accompany Kit to seal the Breach, he had been appalled. While Kit, a woman who paid obeisance to no god, had been both delighted and absurdly confident that she would win. That had been—not the first sign, no, but the last one he had refused to acknowledge. 

So he had sent the coin flying through the air once again. The Maker had touched her; she would be the augur, her actions the signs he would read. The future lay in her hands; perhaps it was best that she didn’t realize it. 

Cullen made copies of messages that others would need to read, kept the originals, and sealed up the copies to be delivered around Skyhold. 

By that time, the ravens had eaten their fill. He fitted the letters he’d brought from his office into the small metal tubes chained around their legs and sent the birds off on new missions. 

 


	25. when opportunity knocks, open the door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longish chapter and last of the daily updates. 
> 
> I'm going to post two more updates on the usual every-other-day schedule and then I'm going to be on vacation for a couple of weeks. So expect a gap.
> 
> Thanks for reading! The little counter just clicked over 100 kudos, which is pretty exciting for me. I celebrated by fixing some continuity errors! (i.e., apparently I don't know how to spell Katherine and changed my mind almost every chapter.)

Kit finished cutting slits in the bottom of the wooden sandals she’d made and ran her thumb along the sole, feeling for splinters. The wood was a couple inches thick, so when she fed the leather straps she’d bought in Crestwood village through the indentations they wouldn’t scrape against the ground as she walked. She wrapped the straps around her feet, binding her foot to the shoe, and then tied off the straps with a knot.

“You sure you don’t want a pair?” she asked. 

“No.” Varric huddled under an oilcloth tarp and held the reins of their packhorse. “And I’ll bet you a sovereign that you change out of them in under an hour.” 

“Your feet are probably growing mold as we speak,” said Kit, taking the horse’s reins and clomping ahead. They were finally leaving the twisting, cave-riddled hills behind and heading into more open territory, farmholds tucked among fields of tall grass. “Stuck stewing inside those wet boots. Ugh.” 

“You’re calling _my_ feet dirty? When you’re dragging yours through the mud? Mine are _protected_.” 

“Yours are _squelching_.” 

They’d covered the horse in oilcloth tarps, too, for all the good it did. Water seeped into their saddlebags no matter what they tried. Everything they’d brought was permanently damp and, unless scoured regularly, smelled of mildew. Varric kept fighting the wet, but Kit had decided to embrace it. She wore a sleeveless top and a knee-length skirt, both completely soaked, with her hair tied up in a turban. And now sandals! 

She actually jumped into a puddle, just because she could, and laughed when Varric groaned. 

That, of course, was when the bandits showed up. Kit had an arrow in her thigh before she could put up a barrier, really _in_ her thigh, with only the shaft sticking out. She screamed and sent bolts of lightning flying in every direction, killing half of the bandits in one swoop—they were all so _wet_ —and making Varric yelp.

“Sorry!” she cried, switching to ice. 

The last of the bandits fell to one of Varric’s bolts and Kit began hopping toward the nearest boulder. Every excruciating bounce sent blood gushing out of the wound. The arrowhead scratched her thighbone, or a nerve, something that sent nausea rolling through her whole body. She sniffled and hopped and whimpered and hopped and then fell forward onto the boulder, lowering her hip to the rock. 

“What’s the damage?” Varric asked, coming up alongside with Bianca holstered on his back. 

“Can you get it out?” Kit asked.

“Yeah.” Varric reached for the shaft of the arrow and braced his palm just above her knee. “You want whiskey or… something to bite?” 

She’s tucked leather scraps from making the sandals into the horse’s saddlebags, but it would take forever—several forevers, one on top of the other—to dig them out. She pulled the turban from her head and twisted it into a rope, instead. 

“This really hurts,” she whispered, stuffing her mouth with sodden linen.

Varric _yanked_ and Kit shrieked, tears squeezing out of her eyes, and then she shrieked again because if she thought she’d been hurting before she was wrong, the arrow had held back the pain like a dam holds back a river and now it was crashing down on her. 

Varric splashed potion over the wound and then handed her the vial, so she could drink the rest. She threw her head back and almost choked herself swallowing it. 

“Give it a minute,” said Varric. 

Kit nodded and held still, trying not to blubber. 

“Varric?” called a woman’s voice. “Is that you?” 

“Over here!” Varric shouted back. 

A woman in battered leathers slunk out from the underbrush, holding a dagger in each hand. She had short-cropped dark hair and a pale complexion, her figure a mix of womanly curves and hard muscle.  

“I thought I heard your dulcet battle cries.” She rose to her full height, sheathing her daggers. “Took you long enough to get here.” 

“Yeah, well. A maniac and his pet dragon attacked Haven,” said Varric. “Slowed me down a bit.” 

“Was it really a dragon?” The woman swaggered close, addressing herself to Varric but watching Kit. “I’ve heard a dozen rumors, none of them alike.” 

“You’ll have to let me tell you the story. I promise not to exaggerate too much.” Varric nodded at Kit. “This here’s the star of the tale, Katherine Trevelyan. Sometimes known as the Herald of Andraste, although if you call her that to her face, you’ll find out exactly what she thinks of Andraste…”

“Not much,” Kit supplied, shaking out her leg. The potion had done its work, relieving pain and healing most of the damage. Her healing magic was rudimentary at best, but she threw as much power as she could into a basic spell and watched the wound close up with a prickling tingle.

“And we’re not here for a religious debate,” Varric finished. “Kit, I have the great honor of introducing the one and only Champion of Kirkwall, slayer of dragons and Arishoks, the only warrior I’ve ever met who fights as well drunk as she does sober—”

“That’s a lie,” interrupted the woman. “And the rest I wouldn’t brag about. Most people call me Hawke. Marian is fine, too. I’m not particular.” 

She offered Kit her hand. Kit stood gingerly, then with more confidence, and reached out to shake. “If half of what Varric wrote about you in the _Tale of the Champion_ is true, every mage in the Free Marches owes you a debt. If you need help, I’ll do anything I can.” 

Hawke raised her eyebrows at Varric.

“Shades of Anders, I know,” said Varric. “No passenger, though, which cuts down on the crazy.” 

“I’m here because Thedas is in danger. Hopefully that’s a concern to you as well,” said Hawke. “We’re camped in a cave not far from here. Follow me.” 

They followed Hawke along the shore of a silvery lake dappled with raindrops and into a cave. Kit set her staff aglow to light the way. The narrow tunnel broadened into a large, irregularly shaped cavern, every surface smooth from aeons of dripping water. 

A Grey Warden waited by a small fire, sword drawn. Though fit as she’d expect and with a full head of raven-black hair, he was grizzled with age. The years had left him hard and sharp, his mouth a thin slash across his narrow jaw, his nose long and blade-thin, his eyes like chips of ice. 

“Warden Loghain Mac Tir,” said the man in a deep, sonorous voice, offering his hand. 

Kit flinched away from it. 

“Ah.” Loghain cocked one thin, crooked eyebrow at Hawke. “I did warn you.” 

“Really? Because I did _not_ get a warning.” Kit smacked Varric on the shoulder. “It might have saved us some time. No need to march all the way to Crestwood to meet with—”

“The Traitor Teyrn,” supplied Loghain. “I’ve heard all the names. No need to spare my feelings.”

“I wasn’t really worried about your _feelings_ ,” Kit muttered. 

“No?” One corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Then I’ll offer yours the same consideration. The Grey Wardens have fallen prey to delusions that, if left unchecked, could destroy the order and much of Thedas besides. So you’d best swallow your distaste and _listen_ , because there is no one else to sound a warning and no one else to investigate.” 

Kit glanced at Varric and then back at the Warden. “You do understand that neither one of us speak for the Inquisition, right?”

Loghain stiffened. 

Varric stepped between them. “Hawke told me there’s something brewing, something she couldn’t handle on her own. She wanted to know if she’d have any luck turning to the Inquisition for help. I’m here to help answer that question, and I brought Kit for a second opinion. In case you didn’t know—the news is still pretty fresh—some maniac calling himself the _Elder One_ just attacked Haven—”

“You’ve seen him?” Loghain interrupted. “I’d like a description.” 

“I was pretty far away,” said Varric. “Kit?” 

“Yeah, I got nice and close. Tall, skeletal…” Kit made a circling motion over her ribcage. “No skin, and red lyrium sprouting from his skull?” 

“That’s the one,” confirmed Hawke. “I’ve met this Elder One before. In fact, I _killed_ him.” 

“Um…” Kit said. 

“I assure you, I made no mistake. I fought him and left behind a dead body,” said Hawke. “You see the problem?” 

Kit shuddered. “How?” 

“He appears to have the power of resurrection, much like an archdemon,” said Loghain. 

“So only a Grey Warden can kill him?” Kit asked. 

“Perhaps,” Loghain said. “The experiment would have to be made. He is not an archdemon, so the rules may be different. I can tell you what he _is_ —Corypheus, one of the seven Tevinter magisters who entered the Fade and turned the Golden City black.” 

“That was _thousands_ of years ago,” Kit objected. 

“So it was,” he agreed. “And the Grey Wardens have held him for most of that time, because he carries the Blight. The Blight originated with the magisters’ trespass; they introduced it to Thedas when they returned.”

“So… you want the Inquisition to put killing Corypheus on its to-do list?” Kit asked. “It’s probably already there. He just attacked Haven. I haven’t seen the final tally of the lost, but he killed… more than half of everyone who was in the valley that night.” 

“Killing Corypheus must be the ultimate goal, but we have a more immediate problem,” said Loghain. “Not long ago, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling. It is a… song, a vile song, that warns a Grey Warden that his corruption will soon claim him. That he is dying.” 

“Every single one?” Kit asked. 

“Even you?” Hawke asked, at the same time.

Logan nodded. “Yes to both. It’s like an itch at the back of my mind. At times it’s barely there at all, then I find myself starting to hum it under my breath.”

“So all the Grey Wardens are… dying?” Kit asked. “All at once?” 

“No,” said Loghain. “At least, I don’t think so. If all the Wardens are hearing our Calling at once there is a _reason_. Either we are responding to a change in observable reality or we are being manipulated—and I think the latter more likely than the former. I proposed we investigate—”

“But it seems the Wardens would rather panic,” finished Hawke.

“What kind of panic?” Varric asked. 

“The kind borne of true desperation,” answered Loghain. “They believe this Calling is real. A Blight nearly destroyed Ferelden; a Blight without Wardens to stop it might well destroy the world. Warden Commander Clarel proposed a ritual involving blood magic, a desperate measure to prevent further Blights. When I protested the plan, called it madness, they tried to arrest me.”

“Which is how you ended up hiding in a cave in Crestwood?” Kit asked. 

Loghain nodded. “There is no reasoning with the Wardens right now. I believe Corypheus is responsible, using our connection to the Blight to influence our minds.” 

“So what do you want the Inquisition to do, exactly?” Kit asked. 

Loghain looked at Hawke. 

“Find out where the ritual is taking place and stop it from happening,” said Hawke. “It won’t be easy. All the Wardens of Orlais will be present, and they’re unlikely to gather out in the open. What’s more, they’ll surely defend themselves to the death… and beyond.” 

“Well, shit,” said Varric. 

“Even if we wanted to ask the Empress for help—” Hawke began.

“Which we don’t,” Loghain interrupted. 

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Even if we did, we wouldn’t get much help with a civil war going on. We can’t look to neighboring states; they’d have to declare war on Orlais in order to come to our aid. That leaves the Chantry—which has been abandoned by its military arm—and the Inquisition.” 

“So either the Inquisition comes to the rescue or it’s the end of the world,” said Varric. “What do you think, Pepper?” 

“I think their resources are stretched thin and if they can find an excuse to dodge this, there’s a good chance they’d take it,” said Kit. “With only the Traitor Teyrn’s word to go on…” 

“That’s… probably true,” said Varric, with a sigh. He turned back to Hawke. “You have to understand, we’re all still reeling. We got hit hard, and this is a pretty big ask. The Inquisition _could_ mobilize the resources you need, but they’d need a real kick in the pants.” 

“Solid proof,” Kit said. “Someone they trust to argue for you.”

“That means neither of us,” Varric added. 

“I know where we can find such proof,” said Loghain. “A group of Wardens will soon gather at an ancient Tevinter ritual tower in the Western Approach. If you move quickly, you could return to Skyhold to collect a witness and still have time to meet us there.” 

Hawke invited Kit and Varric to share their camp for the night. Damp as the cave was, it was still drier than anyplace else they’d been since reaching Crestwood. Kit did what she could to give Varric and Hawke a chance to catch up, pitching in with chores and volunteering for dinner duty.  

Loghain withdrew to the section of the cave he’d claimed for himself, an island of order and military precision. He reclined on his bedroll with a book open in his lap and spectacles perched on his nose, an upturned crate covered in maps at his side. 

He looked so… not ordinary, but not like a fearsome tyrant. Just a serious, solitary man minding his own business. Kit couldn’t have been more surprised if a darkspawn had pranced in and danced the Remigold. 

Hawke volunteered their food stores; somehow she and Loghain had managed to keep them dry. Kit rustled through their stocks until she had an idea for something tasty.

“Loghain?”

He pushed his spectacles down his nose and looked over at her.

“Can I borrow your shield for a bit?” 

“What do you want with my shield, mage?” 

“Nice flat surface for cooking,” said Kit. “It’s proofed against the elements, right?” 

“Naturally.” 

“I’ll clean it up when I’m done.” 

He gestured to the shield, a thick silverite affair that she could hardly lift. With some difficulty, she balanced it between two large rocks of about the same height, with the convex outer edge facing the ground. She mixed up a simple batter and then drizzled oil and butter across the smooth inside surface of the shield. By applying fire magic from below she melted the butter. Then she poured the batter, feeding more power into her fire spell, cooking it into a thin disk of fry bread, crispy brown on one side and soft on the other. 

Loghain stood up to watch. “Are you—”

She gently peeled the fry bread off the shield and looked over at Loghain.

“Using my _shield_ as a _griddle_?” he finished, sounding a bit strangled.

“Works pretty well,” said Kit. 

“And _magic_ to—”

Kit raised her eyebrows. 

He made an inarticulate, somewhat despairing noise and returned to his corner. 

She made a pile of the fry breads, using up all the batter. Then she mounded a mixture of soft white cheese and cured ham along the center of the discs, rolling them up into lumpy and inelegant crepes. After chopping up a bit of salad, she called the others to eat. 

Hawke and Varric chattered away. They were happy enough to include Kit when she butted in, but they mostly talked about people she didn’t know and places she’d never been. That left Loghain to talk to. Kit hunted about for a topic that might draw him out.

What did she know about him? Some of his military exploits, of course. The Rebellion, maybe? Recent history might have tainted his memories of those days, but he’d led a tiny force to victory against the might of the Orlesian Empire, which, now that she thought about it… 

“So, Loghain,” said Kit. “I could use some some advice.” 

He paused with his crepe halfway to his mouth, pinning her with his pale eyes. “What do you want to know?” 

“How to plan a coup.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Varric interrupted. “What is this? I did not sign up for this.” 

Kit turned to the dwarf. “Why not? Anything I could do to bring you aboard?”

“I’m not joining the revolution!” Varric exclaimed. “Why is that so hard to understand?” 

“Look, Varric. Maybe you’re fine with things going back to the way they were before—but I’m not. The situation at Skyhold is already one step away from unbearable, and it’s only going to get worse. I will die before I live in a Circle again. I’m not going to fight for the future unless I can fight for a future _I want to live in_.” 

“No,” said Loghain very distinctly. 

“No, what?” Kit asked. 

“No, I will not help you plan a coup.” 

“Why not? I thought you hated the Chantry.” 

“I do,” he said. 

“And offered to free the mages of Ferelden in return for their support during the Blight,” she added. 

“An offer I’ve had cause to regret.” He swiped his hand through the air, pushing further questions aside. “I am a Grey Warden now. And while I can’t say I’ve forgotten all my loyalties, or laid down all my grudges, I find that doesn’t matter so long as I don’t meddle in affairs of state.”

Loghain returned to his crepe, apparently unruffled. 

“You really want to take over the Inquisition?” Hawke asked. 

“No.” Kit picked at her salad, mulling. “But it’s starting to look like the best option.” 

“Tell me, Varric.” Hawke didn’t look away from Kit, her mouth tipped into a lazy smirk. “Does she stand a chance?” 

“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.” Varric sounded truly upset, which was worrisome. “But yes, Hawke. A pretty good one.”

Kit smiled to herself. 

“There are better ways, Kit,” said Varric. “You’ve made enemies out of a lot of people who could have been your friends, instead.”

“And you think, for the sake of friendship, the Inquisition Council would free the mages, call off the Templars, and convince the Chantry to leave us alone?” 

“I don’t know,” said Varric. “It’s a tall order. One thing I can tell you for sure? If you want another Kirkwall on your hands, keep going the way you’re going.”

Kit didn’t answer. Let Varric think he’d finished off the conversation with his home truths. If it took another Kirkwall—if it took another _ten_ Kirkwalls—then so be it. 

 

 

 


	26. And so we burned

Cullen sat at his desk with the box containing his lyrium kit open before him. Today was not the day he would break. Nor was it the day he would finally resist the temptation to look, to imagine the rush and the crackling alertness, the ache in his teeth and the heady illusion of limitless strength. 

The door banged open and he tensed, caught. Kit strode into his office. 

She’d come back.

He’d lost her trail more than a week ago and assumed that was it, that she'd gone. Sometimes he'd imagine her camped on the shores of Lake Calenhad, looking out over the water—he’d spent so much time staring at the same endless blue, when he was at Kinloch Hold—and listening to the rain. More often, he’d pictured her corpse left to rot on the side of the road, one more victim of the war that raged on while the Inquisition regrouped.

But here she was. Somewhat the worse for wear—he spotted a new tear in her leather coat, threads hanging loose from her sweater, dirt stains and… was that dried blood? And yet she stood taller than before, held her chin higher. 

“Oh, have I interrupted your favorite part of the day?” Kit asked. 

“No.” Quickly, he closed the box and fastened it shut. He’d slid it half off the desk, opening the bottom drawer to hide it away, when he made himself stop. She'd come back. He had made a—call it what it was: _a leap of faith_ —and landed on solid ground. He could do it again.

 “I don’t take it anymore,” he said. 

“Don’t take…” She seemed puzzled. “Lyrium? What were you just doing, then?” 

Cullen laughed humorlessly. “I was _not_ taking lyrium. A frequent occupation of mine.” 

She walked right up to him, reaching out to touch. He held still—he loathed pity but if she’d _touch_ him then he’d take it—but she only passed her hand through the air, tracing his outline. The sharp, static prickle of her magic trailed from neck to elbow, like a shadow caress. 

She dropped to a crouch, both hands curled around the edge of his desk to steady herself, and looked up at him. “How is it?” 

Cullen shook his head and slipped the box back into place in his drawer. Shut it away. 

“When did you stop?” 

“When I left Kirkwall to join the Inquisition.” 

He moved a few papers uselessly from side to side, straightened the tallest stacks so the edges were perfectly square, but she didn’t move or make a sound so finally he looked and yes, she was staring, lips slightly parted, eyes like a still pond… uncertain. 

He’d probably surprised her as much by telling her about the lyrium as she’d surprised him by returning. 

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again,” he said. 

“Oh. Well.” Kit shrugged. “You’re stuck with me for a little while longer.” 

He slipped one of her hands loose from his desk, clasped it. It was a nice hand: slender but wiry, the nails neatly filed, lightly callused. Smaller than his, of course, but not so small that he felt nervous holding it, afraid of his strength or her delicacy. A good fit. A… perfect fit, really. “I’m glad.” 

She stood abruptly and he copied the motion.

He cleared his throat. “Did you need something?” 

“Yes.” 

He waited. 

“I mean no,” she said. “Nothing. Best let you get back to work.” 

And she turned around and fled.


	27. decide what's really important. let everything else go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last post before I go on vacation. See y'all in August.

Kit found Cassandra in the smithy, bent over a thick book with a cracked leather cover and brittle, yellowed pages. She sat at a wooden table, light streaming through the window behind her, still as a statue. Staring at the book but not reading, not turning pages. 

Kit did not want to approach. She’d thought Cullen would be the perfect choice—as the Commander, decisions about military matters ultimately rested with him. He wouldn’t mind a bit of rough travel and she wouldn’t mind his company. 

But after seeing him just now… she was not stupid. She felt precisely zero guilt about picturing him naked (it would be glorious), or wondering what he’d be like in bed (she tended to be optimistic), and while she did not have a great many idle hours to while away she’d spent a few very pleasantly occupied with such questions.

She gave herself permission because he was safe. He saw the line in the sand, the one separating mages and Templars, and he kept to his side. She kept to hers, and nothing bad happened.  

That little talk they’d just had, however, that had _not_ been safe. 

He had—she understood it very clearly, because these rules had knit themselves into the very fabric of her existence—walked up to the line in the sand and blotted it out. 

Now she’d have to keep her distance. She could not ask him to join her on a venture that would throw them into close company for so long. She knew what would happen, and it would not end well. Even without the lyrium, even—and how did he manage it? What kind of superhuman self-control must he have, to carry on for so long without complaint? 

These thoughts, too, were not safe. So she cleared her throat and waited for Cassandra to look up. 

“Kit,” said the Seeker. “What brings you here?” 

Cassandra was the last person Varric would want, but who else could they ask? They needed one of the Council members; no one else’s word would carry enough weight. Just the thought of asking Leliana gave Kit the shivers. Josephine had only just gotten back from Val Royaux, and anyway wasn’t suited for fast travel through rough environments. That left Cassandra. 

Kit approached the Seeker, sat down across from her. The sound of ringing metal was so loud inside that it was hard to hear; it amazed her that Cassandra could concentrate through it. The power of focus. 

“Varric and I have heard some disturbing rumors about the Gray Wardens,” said Kit. “We have a solid lead about where we could go to investigate, find out more. If you could come with us… it might be really important.” 

“I—” Cassandra looked down at the book. “I have just made some very… unsettling discoveries. About the Seekers, and our history going back to the first Inquisition. Right now… I am distracted, I’m afraid. It would be better if you asked Leliana for help. She has brought up similar concerns.”

Kit hesitated, then asked, “Are you all right?” 

“No,” Cassandra said. “Thank you for asking, Kit. But I would prefer to be alone.” 

“Of course.” Kit jumped to her feet. She fumbled around for some last sympathetic comment, but none came to mind and she was only irritating the Seeker by lingering. 

Kit left the smithy. No sooner had she stepped into the courtyard than Theo flagged her down, waving her over to the dormitory tower and ushering her up the stairs to his room.

“I don’t know where _you’ve_ been,” said Bits, opening the door to their knock, “but _we’ve_ been busy.” 

“Apparently people besides mages have problems, and sometimes they’re serious. Who knew?” Kit stepped inside and looked around: two single beds shoved together, the sheets rumpled. Two cups on a cabinet and an empty bottle of wine by the door, waiting to be smuggled out and tossed into the tavern’s trash pile. “Oooh. _That_ kind of busy.” 

Bits bumped her shoulder into Kit’s, shoving her toward an empty chair. “You stop it. You’ll make poor Theo blush.” 

“How long has this been going on? Who made the first move? Was it very romantic?” Kit sat down and folded her hands in her lap. “I want a full report.” 

“Time for a distraction,” said Theo, extracting a small chest from underneath the bed. He grunted as he lifted it, setting it down on the wobbly round table they’d shoved up against the wall. 

Kit snorted. “Fat chance.” 

“Oh, I think this will hold your interest.” Theo took the key that Bits fished from a pocket and fit it into the lock. He flipped the lid and revealed… gold. A great heaping pile of gold sovereigns. 

“I found an abandoned vault,” said Bits. “This is just the beginning. We’ve got money.” 

“Just the beginning?” Kit’s mouth went dry. “It’s—Bits, that’s enough money to resettle. And more. We could go anywhere in Thedas. We could live off of that for a year. We could—”

“Buy an army,” Theo interrupted. “We’re not getting out of Skyhold without help. Back in Haven, I met a mercenary who worked for the Bull’s Chargers. He was hoping the Inquisition would hire the company, but the Council didn’t bite. I’ve been asking around since then; they’ve got a solid reputation. I think we should make contact. They’d give us the muscle we need.” 

“And since Leliana is hardly going to be delivering a message from a rebel mage to an unemployed mercenary captain, that means sneaking someone out of Skyhold,” Kit said. “Have you figured that out yet?” 

Bits and Theo exchanged glances.

“No,” said Theo.

“And once we hire the mercenary company—do we smuggle them into Skyhold as pilgrims?” Kit asked. “Are we going to fight our way out? How would we do it? Take the battlements, I guess, so the guards can’t rain arrows down on us, and…” Kit shook her head, boggled by the possibilities. “I guess that’s what mercenaries are for. Solving this sort of problem.”

“I cast an illusion to hide the vault,” said Bits. “No one else will find it. But you’re right—we’re a long way from a solid plan.”

Kit rubbed at the Mark on her palm. “There might be something big coming up,” she said. “Something big enough to provide us with a window of opportunity, if we’re smart.”

Theo narrowed his eyes. “What kind of ‘big’?”

“Catastrophic,” said Kit. “The whole world is a mess. I don’t know where we think we’re going to go. There isn’t a safe place in Thedas anymore.” 

“We could try to negotiate better terms with the Inquisition,” suggested Theo. “If you’re right about something big coming up, that could be an opportunity to insist on more freedoms in exchange for our cooperation. We’ve proven ourselves in the past. That ought to bring them to the table.”

“We shouldn't have to _ask_ to be treated like people,” Bits spat.

“As long as they’re giving us permission they can take it away,” added Kit. “I’ll be leaving again soon. I’d offer to make contact with these Bull’s Chargers myself, but I’ll have at least one Council member with me. If you can work on that, I’ll return with a fair notion of what’s next for the Inquisition. If things go the way I think they will, Skyhold will empty out. Or near to it."

“You're leaving again?” Bits repeated. “This have to do with the Mark on your hand?” 

“No. Grey Wardens this time.” Kit sighed. “We’re kind of in a rush, actually. We’re going all the way to the Western Approach and we have to move quickly.” 

“Whatever you’ve been up to… it’s really got you worried,” said Bits.

“More than worried,” Kit admitted. “Terrified. I might stick with the Inquisition, while the rest of you leave. As bad—”

“Kit!” Bits smacked her on the knee. “After everything you’ve done for us? We’re not leaving you behind.” 

“You have no idea how good it feels to hear you say that, Bits.” Kit raked a hand through her hair and made a face. Lank and greasy. She needed a bath. “I’m going to go get cleaned up. Then I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to… and you can do the same." She grinned. "In great detail.” 

Bits threw a pillow at her. “Never going to happen!” 

“Is that a challenge? I think that was a challenge.” Kit tossed the pillow back. “If you’re going to make me work for it, you’d better have something really juicy to tell me.” 

“If you’d get your own, you wouldn’t need to hear about mine,” said Bits. “Half of Skyhold would volunteer for the job. Should I put up a poster?” 

“Only if you want to screen the candidates,” said Kit. 

“Oh, sure. What are friends for? Just tell me your qualifications and I’ll get started. Like, say, how big—”

Theo clapped his hand over Bits’s mouth, muffling the rest of her sentence. “So, Kit. Didn’t you say something about getting cleaned up?” 

“I did.” Kit backed up to the door, grinning. “You know, Bits, you look awfully comfortable like that. Something you haven’t told me?” 

She shut the door on Bits’s enraged wail and went to collect a change of clothes from her room. On her way to the bathhouse, Varric called up to her. 

Kit leaned over the battlements. “I’m on my way down!” 

“No need!” Varric shouted back. “Curly’s on board! Meet me in his office!” 

Kit froze. Oh, no. No no _no_. 

“We’re leaving in the morning!” 

Fuck. 

 

 


	28. don't tempt fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No promises about frequency of updates, but I'm home!

She had only seen Cullen fight once, on her way up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She’d been too distracted by the Breach—and, to be honest, by her intense self-pity—to form much of an impression. Since then, she’d mostly seen him engaged in the kinder, gentler aspects of warmaking: training his troops, meeting with his lieutenants, orchestrating the defense of Haven. For fuck’s sake, he had hunted her down, captured her, and brought her back to Haven without so much as raising his voice. 

But of course he was a killer. 

She realized it—she had always known, but seeing was believing—the first time she, Varric, and Cullen encountered a rift. A rage demon emerged from the shifting facets of green Fade energy and Cullen drew his sword, slung his shield into place, and met it halfway. 

Varric unholstered Bianca. Kit raised an ice wall only to watch a pride demon shatter it in a single blow; a second rage demon strained against her static cage until it burst with a crackle of electricity. Varric’s bolts hit hard enough to drive the demons back, shrieking in pain, but these demons were stronger than any they’d fought before. 

Cullen jabbed and sidestepped, lunged and dodged. His feet were never still. The only other warrior Kit had ever fought alongside was Cassandra, and she had a blunt, economical style. She waded into the fray, she hit hard, she didn’t waste energy. Cullen was fluid, confident, and vicious—and he kept them from being overwhelmed.

Kit shifted to purely offensive spells, trusting Cullen to control the flow of battle, and the tide began to turn. When she finally closed the rift, she found herself staring at him as though he were a wild animal who’d wandered too close. A lion or a bear, as liable to run away in fear as rip her to shreds. How had he fooled her into thinking he was tame? 

He began to unfasten his armor, shedding plate piece by piece. Blank and rattled and not quite ready to snap out of it, Kit just watched. Finally he peeled off his bloody quilted gambeson and stood in the clearing—dead silent now the Rift was gone, a pleasant meadow—in nothing but his trousers, his bare chest pale as the underbelly of a fish but so densely, so _magnificently_ strapped with muscle that her throat went dry and something deep in her belly twitched.

“Do you have a potion?” he barked. 

“A what?” 

“I gotcha, Curly.” Varric tossed him a vial filled with red liquid. 

It wasn’t until Cullen raised his arms to catch it that Kit saw the blood running down his side. 

Kit closed her eyes and counted to ten. She should not get any closer to him. And she didn’t need to, really. She knew a bare handful of healing spells. The potion would surely do the trick. She could leave him be and not feel guilty at all. 

“Would you like me to heal you?” Kit asked, as ungraciously as possible. 

“Please,” he said, though still in that unfamiliar, harsh voice.

She approached, fighting against herself at every step. She was not a good enough healer to cast from range. Sweat collected in his collarbone and darkened his hair. He had blond chest hair, but not too much of it. A trim waist and a flat stomach, with twin furrows slanting down his hips and disappearing into his trousers like an arrow. 

He’d been stabbed. Quite badly, in fact—a mortal wound if not treated. He was doubtless in excruciating pain. 

She resented the whole situation too much to care. He shouldn’t be here. And he shouldn’t be so handsome. 

Kit threw all the spells she knew at the gash, one after the other. It shrank dramatically, while the taut muscles of his neck and shoulders eased and smoothed. Had she ever seen such beautiful shoulders? So broad and— 

“Hey, Pepper?” 

Kit turned automatically toward the voice.

“You’re making this awkward,” said Varric.

Kit shook herself. “Sorry.” She took a step back. Then another. “I’m going to… go… over there.” 

She picked a direction at random and started walking. Cullen actually started to follow her, but she waved him away. She knew that look in his eye—a little predatory—and she needed to get far, far away from it. 

 


	29. judge me whole

Cullen carried his gear to a nearby stream, trailed by Varric and their horses, to soak the blood out of his gambeson. The sodden wool chilled him when he put it on, a welcome distraction from the lingering pulse of Kit's magic beneath his ribs. She might not have much skill as a healer, but _Maker_ he couldn't doubt the raw power at her command. 

She found them a few minutes later, chin held high and eyes flashing dangerously. Her bearing warned him away, but he'd seen the chink in her armor. She was not unmoved by him. She could be lured, and she could be caught. 

They remounted and resumed their journey. When her stiff posture began to bend, he nudged his horse alongside hers. 

"So, Commander," she said breezily, turning a sharp smile on him. "Did you make friends with many rapists in the Kirkwall barracks?" 

Clear enough. He left her alone after that. But the comment nagged at him, enough that after they made camp in the evening—in a lightly wooded clearing on the shore of a small lake, where the ground was dry and rocky—he was still thinking about it.

Had he made friends with many rapists? He hadn't made any friends at all, not really. But he'd broken bread with rapists. He'd saluted knights after he'd seen them commit atrocities. And once he'd risen through the ranks, he'd promoted men who had... at the time he would have said _made mistakes_. Stepped out of line. He'd balanced abuse against a Templar's leadership skills, his skill on the training ground, his willingness to anticipate and follow orders. No one was perfect, after all. 

It was Varric's turn to cook. The dwarf prepared a savory stew, four or five meats swimming in a rich dark broth with enough garlic to clear out his sinuses and not a hint of anything green. 

"Tell me something, Kit," Cullen asked, sitting across from her at the fire as they ate. “If it were up to you, what would you do with the Templar Order?” 

“Oh, Curly." Varric groaned. “Do we have to have this conversation?” 

“Yes,” said Cullen. 

“This will probably surprise you, but I don’t object to the idea of knights trained specifically to combat mages.” Kit twirled her spoon between her fingers, stew tipping toward the lip of the bowl as her grip on it loosened. She sat cross-legged, a little slouched, hair falling loose from her braid. At ease, from weariness or her own natural confidence. “So many people think that mages ought to be locked away because we’re frightening. Oh, the things we could do… As if that justifies anything at all. I won’t use the same argument on Templars. I’m frightened of Templars, but I can live with that. We’re all scared of something.” 

“So you would leave the Order intact?” Cullen asked, shocked. Even Varric appeared to be listening, now. 

“Of course not.” Kit rolled her eyes. “That’s just the beginning. I don’t think the Chantry should have a monopoly on anti-magic training any more than I think the Chantry should have control over mages. Making sure that no state in Thedas has a royal army or city guard capable of fighting mages is part of what keeps the whole Circle system going. Why would any state harbor free mages when they have no soldiers to counter them?”

Cullen sat up straighter. “You’re right.” 

Kit gave him a lopsided smile. 

“The lyrium trade,” he said, following the branching paths of her argument. “The Chantry does so much more than secure an adequate supply. They want a monopoly…” On the lyrium, and _also_ on what the lyrium enabled Templars to do. Templars who took their vows, who dosed themselves, chained themselves to the Chantry _for life_. No matter how unhappy Cullen had been in Kirkwall, no matter how profoundly he’d objected to his duties, _he’d had nowhere else to go_.

When he’d stood with Hawke against Meredith Stannard, he’d expected to die for it. He had not expected his brother Templars—bound by their lyrium leashes—to fall in with him when he ordered his superior officer to stand down. He had been ready for them to seize him, imprison him, and execute him as a traitor. 

It would have been a painful, public, and humiliating death—but he had not been able to choose otherwise. He had obeyed until he could obey no more. 

And when he’d left the Order, when he quit lyrium, he had again prepared to die. He might yet die; he was not out of danger. But it had been the only way, so he’d taken it. He'd had few options, all of them bad. 

“Maker’s breath,” he whispered, stunned.  

“Shame you’re the first person to ever ask a mage what should happen to the Templar Order,” Kit quipped.

“Kit, what’s let of the Templar Order is _mine_ ,” Cullen said. “This is why the Inquisition exists. I can bypass the Chantry. I can approach the King of Ferelden, or the Empress of Orlais, or King Bhelen, and speak to them directly.”

Why hadn’t he thought of this himself? He knew the problems that plagued the Order—he knew them better than Kit—but he had never even _looked_ for alternatives. If a soldier with Templar training had _choices_ , if the nations of Thedas had to _compete_ for anointed knights, every Templar’s life would change for the better. 

She looked at him steadily. “What about abolishing the Circles?” 

“I… can’t say that I would support it,” he answered, still reeling. “But this is the first time I’ve ever thought it might be possible.”

She shrugged, unimpressed, and returned to her stew. 

“You have a solution to that problem, as well?” Cullen asked.

“A Harrowed mage should be free,” she said, an edge to her tone. “As free as any other citizen, in any case. You know what a Harrowing entails, don’t you? You must.” 

“The apprentice mage enters the Fade in a trance, and confronts a demon,” he answered promptly.

“Yes, but demons in the Fade aren’t like the ones that come pouring out of  Rifts. They can mask their true forms, tell clever lies. Scent out all your deepest desires and then promise to fulfill them.” 

“I know."

She paused at that—head tilting to the side, alert to his change in tone. He’d give her credit; even at her most intransigent, she _listened_.  

“Before I served in Kirkwall, I was posted to the Ferelden Circle,” he explained. “I was there during the Blight, when the Tower was taken over by blood mages.” 

Kit made a disgusted noise. “You mean you sat around praying in front of a closed door waiting for permission to kill everyone inside.” 

“No,” Cullen replied, proud that he could keep his voice steady. “I was inside the tower. Had the Right of Annulment arrived before the Hero of Ferelden, I would have been killed along with the rest. I was the only Templar—of more than thirty who had been locked in after the doors were sealed—to survive.” 

That silenced her—it silenced everyone he told, of course. But he saw a flash of understanding in her dark eyes, empathy rather than pity. Because she was right: every Harrowed mage had tasted what he’d been forced to gorge upon. 

“The only one?” Varric asked.

Cullen didn’t answer. Unlike Varric, he did not make up stories and he did not embellish the truth.

“Maker have mercy,” Varric said softly. “I had no idea.”

“I do not think that mages are weak.” Cullen addressed himself to Kit again. “But I watched a great many trained knights, friends whom I admired and trusted, succumb to demonic temptations. I am not sure how I withstood it, the few days that I was trapped. I am amazed that any mage lives to a ripe old age without having given in.”

And it occurred to him, in another odd shift—the evening had been full of them—that _he_ had tested her ability to resist temptation, more than once. That he had resented the unabashed heat of her gaze when he first met her, and more recently cursed her ability to keep a safe distance. 

She had stared at his bare chest as though poleaxed that afternoon, and he’d been grateful for the effect he had on women for the first time in… a while. But he was suddenly, dreadfully certain that he could have her soaking in her own desire, and she would still turn him away. 

They were so much more alike than he had guessed. 

 


	30. don't be stupid

The drearier the desert, the more spectacular the sky. Or at least, so it seemed to Kit as they crossed into the Western Approach. She’d never seen skies so vast, nor sunsets so colorful, nor stars so bright. If someone had told her a mage dwelled here, painting the heavens with magic, she’d have believed it. 

Kit couldn’t resist the temptation. She left her tent in the pack horse’s panniers when they made camp and laid her bedroll directly on the sand. 

“Aren’t you worried about bugs?” Varric asked, shaking out the canvas of his tent. 

“They won’t bother me if I put down a ward,” Kit replied. “You want to try it?” 

“Not even a little bit,” the dwarf replied.

Kit looked over at Cullen. “What about you, Commander?” 

He shook his head.

“Your loss.” 

While Varric and Cullen prepared for bed, Kit folded her arms behind her head and stared up at the night sky. Coughs and grunts issued from inside the canvas, and then soft snores. Less familiar noises floated on the breezes that skimmed her bare face, thumps and rustlings. Monsters lurked in the darkness, some of them large, some of them hungry. 

But her wards would hold.

Pebbles jabbed at her back. She wiggled about, forcing the sand to conform to her shape a little better, and watched the sky wheel above. The desert stars shone with a crystalline sharpness unlike anything she’d ever seen before. 

Eventually, she fell into a light and restless sleep. A yelp issuing from Cullen’s tent in the pre-dawn woke her quickly; she propped herself up on one elbow and called, in a low voice, “Cullen?” 

No answer.

She rubbed the grit from her eyes and began to slide out of her bedroll when the Commander himself parted the flaps of his tent and stepped out into the open. 

“Are you all right?” 

He looked fine. Eyes a little red-rimmed, perhaps, ringed by dark circles. But if something were wrong, he’d have his sword in hand, and he didn’t. Nor his armor, for that matter; he wore a linen shirt, untucked, and buckskin trousers.

He squatted by her side, pitched his voice low. “Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep if you can.” 

Kit snuggled back into the bedroll. The days were brutally hot, but the nights were cold and it took a while for the sun to burn away the chill in the morning. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come, so instead she watched Cullen through slitted eyes. He tended to the horses, gathered fuel for the fire—more dried dung than wood, in these parts—though he didn’t light it, filled their pots and canteens. They’d camped near a long-abandoned mine whose well hadn’t spoiled; finding fresh water had become a challenge. 

“Go ahead and start the fire,” Kit said sleepily. 

He looked over. “You’re awake.”

“Not really,” she answered. “Halfway.” 

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?” he asked. “This is—”

“Fine,” she interrupted. “I’m a little jumpy without the tent. Not your fault.” 

He struck steel to flint and coaxed a flame from the nest of dung and trash then sat down next to her, legs bent and arms looped loosely around his knees. 

“Kit?” he asked. 

She hummed in reply. 

“Will you tell me why?” 

Kit rolled a bit, so she could look at him. He, however, kept his eyes fixed on the fire, now blazing merrily. 

He could have been asking anything. Why were they in the Western Approach? Why had she chosen to sleep outside? Why didn’t she like the smell of burning dung? 

But vague as the question had been, she knew exactly what he meant. 

“It wouldn’t end well,” she said. 

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” She snorted. “And so do you.” 

He didn’t answer immediately. Varric stopped snoring and started grumbling. The dwarf emerged from the tent a few minutes later wearing pants and an undershirt. If his well-muscled arms were any indicator, winding a crossbow took a fair bit of strength.

“I hate sleeping on the ground,” Varric declared, hair sticking up in every direction. “I hate porridge for breakfast. And I hate being more than a day’s ride from the nearest tavern.” 

“Back on the road, then,” said Cullen, pouring hot water over the oats he’d measured out earlier. “The sooner we accomplish our business here, the sooner we return to Skyhold.” 

***

Kit left her bedroll in the panniers the next night, too. She slept under the stars again, more deeply this time. More comfortable. Muffled shouting from inside Cullen’s tent woke her in the pre-dawn, just like before. 

This time she didn’t leave the warmth of her bedroll or call out. She raised herself up onto her elbow and waited. If he didn’t come out in a minute, she’d see if he needed help.

The tent flaps parted. Cullen stepped out of the tent, curly-haired and rumpled. He may have slept, but he didn’t seem rested. 

She lay down and drifted while he bustled about the camp. By the time he’d finished the early morning chores and sat down next to her, he seemed more himself. Calm and in control.

“Have you ever lain with a mage?” she asked, just to poke at his composure. 

“No,” he answered. 

“Good for you,” she said. 

“And you?” 

“With a Templar, you mean?” she asked. 

He nodded. 

“Of course,” she answered. 

He considered her, eyes hooded. “It… wasn’t a good experience, I take it?” 

“Oh, nothing so terrible.” She pushed the covers down to her waist and stretched a bit, to make him look at her breasts. “Take Ser Ennett. He was _incredibly_ handsome—almost as good looking as you—but a real bully. I knew that going in; it’s why I wanted him. I’d only offer to meet him when I was sure he had duties elsewhere and equally sure that his superiors would notice if he didn’t show. He knew what I was up to and it made him _furious_ … but he kept coming to see me anyhow.” 

He’d taken his anger out on her, too. He’d shove her up against the wall or bend her over a table, pull her hair and leave bruises on her hips, and never, ever make any effort to give her pleasure. 

“What happened?” Cullen asked.

“What do you think?” Kit smiled at the memory. “He was stripped of his rank and dismissed from the Order.”

Not because he’d been fooling around with a mage—that would have gotten him a slap on the wrist, at best—but a Templar who shirked his duties and disobeyed direct orders? They’d come down hard on him. 

“You sabotaged him intentionally?” 

“We’re not allowed to fight fair, Cullen.” 

He nodded, staring into the fire. 

“And then there was Luc,” she continued. An Orlesian who’d been cruel to children. “Hotheaded, jealous. Angry at every other knight I flirted with. Poor fellow picked a fight with a better swordsman, died at my feet. Very tragic.” 

Cullen’s lips thinned. “And the man who killed him? Also a Templar?” 

“Yes. He was demoted and sent to another Circle,” Kit said. “Have you lost interest yet?” 

He flicked a glance at her. Steady, penetrating, but warm. Those amber eyes had been so cold for so long. When had that changed? 

“No,” he said simply.

She laughed, though there was more panic than cruelty in the sound. “Then you’re mad. I’d do the same to you if you gave me the chance.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” 

“Yes, I would.” But she heard the uncertainty in her own voice, the lack of conviction.

His mouth twitched into a smile, the scar on his upper lip puckering enough to leave a dent. “You wouldn’t.” 

Kit reached out and fisted the thin linen of Cullen’s shirt. She pulled and he moved willingly, bending over her, shifting until they were nose to nose and their breaths mingled. 

“Go ahead,” she said quietly, still lying flat on her back. “See what happens.” 

His head dipped and his lips brushed hers. Just a whisper of warmth before he withdrew. She licked her lips, to taste the traces of him, just as he slanted his head over hers and kissed her thoroughly, licking her mouth open and sucking on her tongue. 

Oh, she could do this all day. All night. Forever, possibly, and never get tired. She relaxed, warm and languid, shifting in invitation. When he pulled away, she tried to hold him close. Not that it did her any good—she couldn’t make him move an inch in a direction he didn’t want to go. 

“What if you’re wrong?” He traced her jawline, the calloused pad of his thumb at odds with the gentleness of his touch. “What if there were a way?” 

She wasn’t wrong. There would never be a way. Back in Skyhold, her friends plotted against the Inquisition. She didn’t want to hurt him, but he’d be collateral damage. 

Kit rolled to a sitting position and shivered. Because it was cold, of course. Not because she felt guilty or… anything else. She couldn’t afford to. 

“I’m going to bathe before we get moving,” she said, grabbing her towel and walking away from camp without looking back.

***

That night, they camped in sight of the Abyssal Rift. Kit slept in her tent to avoid another pre-dawn conversation with Cullen. It was dangerous, spending time with him like that. Intimate. Nothing good would come of it. 

She dressed before she stepped out of the tent, shoes and armor included. The sturdy, metal-studded leather bolstered her. 

“We should leave the horses here,” said Varric over breakfast. “Cover the final stretch on foot.”

Kit shot Varric a meaningful look. “It might be a good time—”

“To water the bushes,” Varric interrupted. “Looks pretty empty out there. Not much privacy.” 

Kit took the hint but pulled him aside when Cullen followed Varric’s advice and disappeared among the canyons.

“We should warn him about Hawke and Loghain,” she whispered. “He won’t like being surprised.” 

“And then we’d spend the rest of the day explaining ourselves,” said Varric. “I know you love to do things the hard way, but trust me on this. Better to shock him than miss the ritual.”

Kit agreed, but grew increasingly uneasy as the onyx tower rose up from the horizon. It sparkled in the sun, ominous black gleams that set her on edge. 

She recognized the two figures waiting by a bridge that crossed to an island of rock that seemed almost to float over the Abyssal Rift. Hawke and Loghain were waiting. Hopefully, they hadn’t come too late. 

As they got closer, Cullen recognized them too. He drew his sword, stepping away from Kit and Varric, dropping into a crouch.

“ _What is the meaning of this_?” he demanded, low and dangerous.


	31. And there I saw the Black City

He recognized Hawke by her posture alone, that supreme hip-cocked confidence that no one else could match. After all the secrecy, Varric’s many assurances that he had vital information that _couldn’t yet be shared_ , so sensitive that only the most _senior_ members of the Inquisition could be trusted with this inexplicable yet crucial mission, Cullen was frankly relieved to see Hawke at the end of their journey. 

She must want something, and Varric knew better than to bring her to Skyhold. Easy enough to understand, though Cullen didn’t like having his time wasted. 

But Kit? What could Kit have to do with this scheme, unless… unless _Anders_ were involved. 

Cullen fell back a bit, out of arm’s reach from his companions. 

What else could it be? Much as Cullen had liked Hawke, and even come to think of her as an ally, she’d helped the apostate flee Kirkwall after he blew up the city’s Chantry. What reason would the Champion of Kirkwall have to hide, to refuse the Inquisition’s many requests for assistance, if she weren’t protecting the fugitive?

Had Cullen been lured into some delayed vengeance? Could Varric mean him harm? No, surely not. 

But Kit? Cullen considered her, a few paces ahead of him now, walking purposefully but with a looseness to her gait, a slight sway to her hips, that made him want to reach out and…

Maker’s breath. Forget about her body. Would she lead him into an ambush or not? 

He had no idea. 

Hawke seemed to have brought a Grey Warden for company; Cullen identified the silver-and-blue armor long before he could make out the features of the man wearing it. 

Black hair, tall, built like a warrior… a long face, quite a nose… probably older… 

The details finally clicked. The Warden had to be Loghain Mac Tir, a man as famous for his treason as his wily military strategies. 

Cullen drew his sword, naked steel blazing in the harsh sunlight. “What is the meaning of this?” 

Kit jumped, both feet clearing the ground, and cast a barrier spell over herself and Varric as she skittered clear of his blade. 

“Nothing to shed blood about,” she said in a high, nervous voice.

He was not reassured. 

“Now, Curly, you’ve got to give us a chance to explain,” Varric added, hands up and palms out. 

“You’ve had _every_ chance to explain,” seethed Cullen, hefting his shield into place. Two, no—four against one. If he _had_ been drawn into a trap, he wouldn’t survive it. “ _Days_ of opportunity.” 

Hawke and Loghain left the shelter of the bridge and ran to join them. 

“Everything I told you was true! I swear!” Varric declared. “Just a few little details missing, and we’ll fill you in on those.” 

“The ritual has started!” Hawke called, halting in front of Varric and blocking his body with her own. She rested her hands on her daggers, but didn’t draw them. “We have to hurry.” 

The _ritual_? Blood of Andraste, what had he walked into? 

“Is this your witness?” Loghain asked, his icy gaze skimming Cullen from top to toe. He did not appear impressed. “I can carry him if he won’t come nicely. Say the word and I’ll toss him over my shoulder.” 

“You can try,” Cullen snarled. “You won’t survive the attempt.”

“Cullen.” The unfamiliar note of pleading in Kit’s voice tugged at him. He wanted to look but couldn’t afford to, not surrounded as he was. “We must seem like an untrustworthy lot—”

“We don’t have time for this,” snapped Loghain. “You’re a mage, aren’t you? Paralyze him.”

Kit hissed and flicked her fingers. The familiar rune of paralysis flashed… underneath Loghain’s feet. The Warden froze, a startled scowl fixed on his face. 

Cullen began to relax… then wondered if he was being tricked. Kit had lied to him before, after all. Manipulated him to get her phylactery out of Haven and then mocked him for being a gullible fool. 

“Is there anything we can do to convince you to cooperate right now, and yell at us later?” Kit asked. “Should we disarm? Would you like a hostage? I’ll swallow a whole _pint_ of magebane if that would speed things along.” 

“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Hawke warned. “If we’re spotted, we’ll be outnumbered. It’ll be a hard fight.” 

Cullen took a deep breath. “Hawke. What is this ritual?”

“Blood magic, I’d wager,” she said. “I can smell it.”

“We just need you to see what’s going on, Curly,” Varric coaxed. “That’s all. Just look. We’ve come a long way and we’re on the home stretch.”

“Where’s Anders?” Cullen asked.

“ _Anders_?” Varric echoed, baffled.

“Nowhere you’ll find him,” said Hawke, firm and impatient. 

Kit glanced around hopefully, as though naming the apostate might summon him. 

“All right.” Cullen sheathed his sword. “Lead on.” 

Hawke turned on her heel and started toward the bridge at a run. Varric followed close behind. 

Kit released Loghain, who promptly turned on her. 

“You are the most aggravating, impudent—” 

“ _Later_ ,” Kit interrupted, shoving at the Warden. “You can yell at me _later_. I’ll start a queue.” 

Loghain made one final attempt to wither Kit with a look—it didn’t faze her, which pleased Cullen inordinately—before turning to follow Hawke and Varric. 

“ _Thank_ _you_ ,” Kit said fervently, grabbing at Cullen’s elbow and giving it a yank. “Now come _on_.” 

What little humor he found in the situation drained away as they crossed the bridge. The tower itself looked like claws stabbing up through the ground, sharp nails closing around a raised platform littered with corpses. 

Grey Warden corpses. 

Hawke drew her daggers and signaled for silence. Varric unholstered Bianca and Kit twirled her staff, positioning the glowing gem by her feet. 

A mix of Warden mages and demons ringed a Warden in heavy armor, a warrior. The warrior crouched low, circling to keep all his fellows in sight, obviously terrified. 

“Wait, no,” begged the warrior Warden. 

“Warden Commander Clarel’s orders were clear,” said a dark-haired mage with an unkempt beard. Though he wore armor of white and reddish gold instead of Warden blue and silver, he appeared to be the group’s leader. 

“This is wrong,” the warrior Warden protested. 

“Remember your oath?” asked the leader. “In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death…”

One of the Warden mages crept up behind the cringing warrior while he was distracted by the leader’s speech. With a murmured, “I’m sorry,” the mage plunged a dagger into his brother Warden’s gut.

“ _Sacrifice_ ,” finished the leader, as the warrior fell dying to the ground.

Bile soured Cullen’s throat. 

A plume of green magic rose up from the warrior Warden’s blood, flashed red and solidified in the form of a rage demon. 

“Good,” said the leader. “Now bind it, just as I showed you.” 

The mage Warden turned his magic on the demon, which struggled briefly before bowing to its new master. 

“What is this?” Cullen whispered. “Are they imposters?” 

Loghain shook his head. “No. They are Wardens, though badly misguided.” 

The Grey Wardens had always been more _resourceful_ than honorable, but blood magic? Ritual sacrifice? “How can this be?” 

“Let’s find out,” murmured Loghain, stepping out from the shadow of the raised platform and marching up the stairs. He raised his voice and called out, “Who are you, mage?” 

Cullen hesitated, then followed. The others trailed behind. 

“Lord Livius Erimond of Virantium at your service.” The leader bowed deeply, a display of confidence rather than humility. He wasn’t afraid to show his back, not surrounded by demon thralls. “And you must be Loghain Mac Tir. The Warden Clarel let slip. Have you come to stop me?”

“I have.” Loghain gestured to the corpse of the warrior Warden they’d all watched die. “Though it looks like you’ve already done some of my work for me.” 

“What, him? We simply needed his blood.” Erimond smirked. “Oh, were you hoping to garner sympathy? Maybe make the Wardens feel a bit of remorse? Wardens, hands _up_.” 

In eerie unison, the Warden mages raised their hands. 

“Hands _down_ ,” Erimond commanded.

The Warden mages lowered their hands. 

“Corypheus controls them,” said Loghain.

Corypheus? The same… not man. The same _creature_ that had led the attack on Haven? 

“They did this to themselves.” Erimond clasped his hands behind his back. “You see, the Calling had the Wardens terrified. They looked _everywhere_ for help.”

“In desperation, they turned to the Imperium,” prompted Loghain.

“Yes.” Erimond nodded. “And since it was my master who put the Calling into their little heads, we in the Venatori were prepared. I went to Clarel full of sympathy, and together we came up with a plan. Raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake.”

“I was wondering when the demon army would show up,” muttered Kit. 

Erimond didn’t hear, or didn’t care. “Sadly for the Wardens,” he continued, “the binding ritual I taught their mages has a side effect. They’re now my master’s slaves. This was a test. Once the rest of the Wardens complete the ritual, the army will conquer Thedas.”

“So Corypheus influenced the Wardens and made them do this ritual?” Cullen asked.

“ _Made them_?” Erimond laughed. “No. Everything you see here, the blood sacrifices to bind the demons, the Wardens did it of their own free will. Fear is a very good motivator, and they were _very_ afraid. You should have seen Clarel agonize over the decision. The burdens of command, I suppose.”

“Why would the _Warden-Commander_ agree to this?” Cullen demanded. 

“Demons need no food, no rest, no healing,” answered Erimond. “Once bound, they will never retreat, never question orders. They are the perfect army to fight through the Deep Roads. Or across Orlais, now they are bound to my master.”

“Do you really want to see the world fall to the Blight?” Loghain asked. “What do _you_ get out of this?”

Strange that the old general, well-known for his impatience, would engage Erimond in conversation so long after a fight had become inevitable. 

Or not so strange. What had he called Cullen? A _witness_? And Erimond a willing informant. 

“The Elder One commands the Blight, he is not commanded by it,” Erimond replied. “The Blight is not unstoppable or uncontrollable. It is simply a tool. As for _me_ , while the Elder One rules from the Golden City we, the Venatori, will be his god-kings here in the world.” 

“Release the Wardens from the binding and surrender,” Loghain demanded. “I won’t ask twice.” 

“No, you won’t.” Erimond shot a beam of magic at the Warden. 

Kit darted forward, her Marked hand raised, and intercepted the blast. 

“ _You_ ,” snarled Erimond. He gathered himself and tried again, redoubling his efforts. Pure force, deep red and malevolent, blasted toward Kit. She caught it, withstood it, but bent with the strain. “That Mark you bear, the Anchor that lets you pass safely through the Veil, you _stole_ that from my master.” 

Kit held her arm steady even as she dropped to one knee. Her head bowed, loose hair veiling her face, but not in time to hide her grimace of pain. 

“What are you waiting for?” Hawke smacked him. “ _Silence_ _him!_ ” 

The blood drained from Cullen’s head in a dizzying rush. _Silence him_. Yes. Quickly. He sheathed his sword and fumbled for the vial of lyrium in his pocket. A practiced flick of his thumb popped the cork—a gesture that had preceded the drug’s icy rush so many times that the action alone made his mouth water.

He hesitated. There would be no going back. Would there? If he did this— 

He didn’t want to. Maker, he didn’t. The craving humiliated him. As weak as he felt without lyrium, nothing could be worse than letting that _need_ rule him. Giving into it every day and lying to himself about why.

Kit made a sound, a sort of breathless shriek. Quiet and involuntary, almost a whistle. Her Marked hand, raised against Erimond’s magic, had turned a livid pink and begun to blister.  

“When I bring my master your head,” Erimond crowed, “he will be so _grateful_.”

While Cullen balked, the blisters on Kit’s hand began to pop and leak. The tip of one of her fingers blackened.  

He raised the vial to his lips.

Kit lunged, her magic surging with her. The whole tower shook with the resulting explosion, as her magic collided violently with Erimond’s. The foundations cracked. Bianca loosed, the loaded bolt flying wide, out into the Rift. And the little glass bottle in Cullen’s hand burst. 

A shard of glass embedded itself in his cheek. Glowing blue liquid trickled down his gauntlet; he almost licked the sun-warmed metal. He didn’t have to, though, because fine droplets splashed his lips, caught in his nose. 

He sniffed. He had no choice. He had to breathe, didn’t he? And, oh, it was _good_. An exquisite burn licked up his sinuses, right to his brain. Then a faint tingling, a sharpness.The magic-drenched air condensed around him, coated his skin like sweat. 

Erimond stumbled toward a door at the far end of the platform. “Kill them!” 

Kit moaned, clutching her hand to her chest. 

The sound squeezed Cullen’s heart like a fist. He was useless. Distracted. Even a droplet of lyrium erased everything else, make the whole world dwindle into insignificance. Like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.

Gritting his teeth, Cullen scrubbed his face in the coarse fur of his surcoat and drew his sword again. Enough soul-searching. Time to fight. 

 

 

 


	32. winning hearts and minds

Kit tried to stay out of the way as her companions battled the Warden thralls and their demons. Once the last body dropped, she began edging toward the stairwell. 

Loghain knelt by one of the corpses, thumbing its eyes shut. “Despite their lack of wisdom, they acted out of necessity.” 

“All blood mages do,” countered Hawke, moving from body to body with one dagger drawn, checking for pulses. “Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions. And it never matters. In the end, you are always alone with your actions.”

Good. They were occupied. 

Kit slipped down the wide, onyx stairs and ducked into the shadow of the platform, the same spot where they’d spied on the ritual. She leaned against the hot stone and slid slowly down until her ass thumped against dusty ground, neck craned to see if anyone had followed. 

Once she was sure that she was alone, Kit made a fist of her uninjured hand, stuffed it in her mouth, and wailed. 

She could not heal the burn on her hand. 

Erimond had attacked her Mark directly. Whatever he’d intended to do, the effect had been to—it seemed— _set it on fire._ Erimond hadn’t burned her; the Mark had. Both in reality and in the Fade. 

And now every nerve in her hand screamed from an injury that didn’t quite exist. Or existed too much. She didn’t know. Didn’t care, really. Not when she was in so much pain. Solas might be able to heal her, living half in the Fade as he seemed to. But he was very, very far away. 

“Motherfucker,” she muttered. “Smarmy, void-taken, dough-faced _motherfucker_.”

She wrapped her hand around her wrist and squeezed, which seemed to numb the pain somewhat. Probably not a good idea, that. 

“There you are,” said Cullen, from the top of the stairs. He trotted down to her, still holding his sword at the ready. “It’s not safe to wander off on your own. I should think you’d know that by now.” 

“I stayed within shouting distance.” Kit hid her burnt hand in her lap. That was instinct, a lifetime of self-preservation at work. Maybe the Mark was fine. But maybe Erimond had changed it, twisted it somehow. She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to share her worries. What was she without the Mark? Just another troublemaker. “Are we done here?” 

“For the moment.” Cullen gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles had gone white and bloodless. He was on edge about something; had he seen her hand? She flipped her coattails to provide a little more coverage. “Loghain thinks this tower was chosen for the ritual because it’s close to an abandoned Grey Warden fortress. We’re going to scout the area.”

“Good idea.” Kit tried to smile but, no. She couldn’t even fake one. “I’m glad we made it in time. I thought you’d be interested.” 

“Yes, I—” Cullen cut himself off, his brows drawing together. “Are you all right?” 

“Fine.”

“You’re really in your element here, Cullen,” said Hawke, striding down the stairs with Loghain and Varric at her back. “Fighting demons, comforting damsels.” 

Kit scowled at her knees. 

“Almost like old times,” Cullen agreed, a bitter edge to his voice. 

Working quickly, Kit pulled a roll of bandages from the pocket of her coat and wrapped the wreck of her hand. She bound it tightly, even though it hurt, the thin linen sticking to all the broken blisters and raw skin. 

Then she used her good hand to lever herself onto her feet. She grabbed her staff and twirled it while she slipped her bandaged hand into one of her coat’s capacious pockets.

She wouldn’t be able to hide the injury for long. But she wanted time to think. To consider how her situation might change. 

“We should go,” said Loghain. “It will take us the better part of the afternoon to reach Adamant. Can one of you mark the location of your camp on my map? We might not be back until morning…” 

Cullen marked the spot. Hawke and Varric chuckled about something; Kit shifted her weight from foot to foot and and started counting in her head. Anything to distract her from the pain. 

Loghain and Cullen set off, side by side. She wouldn’t have minded being a fly on the wall for _that_ little excursion.  

“You coming, Pepper?” Varric asked.

“Sorry,” said Kit, falling in with the dwarf. “Just gathering wool.” 

Just like in Crestwood, Hawke and Varric’s easy chatter didn’t leave much room for Kit to participate. This time, she was grateful. She chuckled and grunted when necessary, but mostly gritted her teeth and kept silent on the way back to camp. 

She did a few chores—sloppily and one handed—then snuck away. Unwrapping her hand was agony, but she did it. She tried her healing spells again, but they had no effect. Fiddling around with chaos spells and anti-magic spells only made her nauseous. 

When the daylight began to fade, Kit gave up. She re-wrapped her hand, the burn just as fresh as it had been in the morning, and numbed it with an ice spell. Back at camp she ate a few bites of the dinner Hawke had prepared and then dug through the horse’s packs until she found a strong painkiller. She took a double dose and managed to sleep. 

In the morning, she sliced up one of her gloves so that she could fit it over the bandages. It wouldn't pass a close examination, and she had to wrap each finger individually, but at least this way she had a chance of escaping notice. That done, she dosed herself with the painkiller again. Heavily.

Cullen and Loghain had returned, around dawn they said, and explained what they’d learned while everyone ate breakfast. Fogged as she was by the drug, Kit didn’t understand a word.

They dismantled the camp—Hawke kept shooting dirty looks at Kit, and Kit couldn’t blame her; she wasn’t pulling her weight—and started the long return journey to Skyhold. 

She snuck away again that night, into one of the mines that honeycombed the winding canyons they’d been navigating most of the day, to clean the burn and replace her bandages. She didn’t see any signs of infection, so she had one thing to be thankful for.

“That looks ugly.” 

Kit looked up to see Cullen looming over her, expression inscrutable. He carried a lit lantern in one hand, the yellow light sliding like syrup over his armor. 

“Not very gentlemanly to sneak up on me,” Kit muttered, soaking a folded square of cotton in antiseptic. 

“When you start acting suspicious, I worry.” He set the lantern down and squatted beside her, his big hands dangling loose between his knees. “Do you want to explain what’s going on?” 

“I can’t heal the burn.” Kit began patting her hand with the soaked cotton, hissing at the sting. “I think it’s because of the Mark…” Kit explained her theory about the Mark existing both in reality and the Fade. “I’m hoping Solas will know what to do.” 

“You probably need a Templar,” said Cullen. 

“A strong silence spell might sever the connection between the Mark and the Fade, even if only briefly…” Kit shrugged one shoulder. “It might work, but the Templars aren’t any closer than Solas is.” 

“I could try.”

Kit smirked. “I thought you weren’t a Templar anymore?” 

“I have lyrium. Just in case.” Cullen tipped his chin at her hand. “I can’t imagine how painful that must be. I wouldn’t mind.” 

Even though he was pushing, she couldn’t tell whether he wanted her to accept the offer or not. Maybe he didn’t know; maybe that was the point. To make someone else decide. 

“No, don’t. I’ll survive.” Kit smiled as best she could, tried to make a joke of it. “If only to further the cause. One less Templar in the world, right? That’s my mission.” 

Cullen nodded firmly, his gaze still fixed on her bandaged hand. “If you can make it back to Skyhold like that…” 

Kit raised her eyebrows. “If I can make it back to Skyhold, then what?” 

“Nothing.” He gestured to the patch of dusty stone beside her. “May I?”

 _No_. She ought to tell him to go away. Or suggest they return to camp together. Or… just about anything other than spend time alone with him.

“Sure.” 

He shifted around, leaned his back against the wall of the mine, mirroring her position. Either his closeness or the fact that he kept staring at her hand made her increasingly nervous; she began picking at loose threads on her linen bandage.

“Why hide it?” he asked.

Kit just shook her head. 

“I hope you know that you’re safe—” He cut himself off and then finished, “with me, at least.” 

“So long as you feel like you need to say that, it’s not really true.” 

He sighed and let his head fall back against the uneven stone wall. “You’re right.” 

“You sure you don’t want to talk about what’s bothering you?” Kit asked. 

“Very sure.” 

Kit shrugged and went back to fiddling with her bandage. 

“Stop that.” Cullen grabbed her arm and pulled it into his lap, careful not to touch her burned hand. 

“Typical Templar,” Kit said. “High-handed, telling me what to do, not even apologizing…” 

He glanced at her sidewise. “A joke?” 

Kit nodded. 

“That’s fine, then.” He pulled her sleeve up a little, traced the veins in her wrist with this thumb. “We should return to camp before they start to worry.” 

“In a few minutes.” 

In the end, they sat there, side by side, for almost an hour. Her hand still hurt, but letting Cullen hold the arm made her feel… calmer about it. She was safe with him, within limits. The danger increasingly seemed to lie elsewhere, beyond the circle of affection they’d created between the two of them. 

Oh, she was in such trouble. 

He kissed the top of her head. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.” 

 

***

 

They got a few speculative looks when they returned to camp together, but no comments. At least, not until the next day, when Loghain nudged his horse next to hers. 

He slid his gaze meaningfully toward Cullen and back to her. “Well, that’s one way of going about it.”

“Going about what?” Kit asked. 

“Don’t be coy, girl.”

“I wouldn’t know how if I tried,” Kit said. “Maybe _you’re_ being mealy-mouthed.”

Loghain barked out a laugh. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. That’s one way to go about throwing a coup.” 

“ _What’s_ one way?” Kit demanded, exasperated.

He looked down the thin blade of his nose at her, all humor gone from his expression. “Come, now.” 

“This is a very frustrating conversation.” 

“Seducing the Commander of the army,” Loghain said sharply. “I won’t deny it’s effective. Lead one man around by the cock and the rest will follow.”

“ _What_?” Kit yelped. Varric turned around in his saddle to stare, and Kit smoothed her expression into a bland smile. She lowered her voice to something just above a whisper. “Cullen? You’ve got to be kidding. He would _never_.” 

“Never what?” Loghain prompted.

“Compromise his principles. Betray his cause. For sex? Not a chance. For love? Still probably not.”

Loghain continued on in silence for a bit, shooting curious glances at her. “So you’ve made the attempt?” 

“Have I—” Kit sputtered. “ _No_. I have _not_.”

“Perhaps you should.” 

Kit pulled at her reins, staring at the Warden. “Are you serious? _No_. That would be—” A level of sordidness of which she was truly incapable. “Awful.” 

Loghain grunted. 

“Is that how you won the rebellion?” She could hardly believe he’d even suggested it. Though they did call him the _traitor teyrn_. He might endorse all kinds of tactics she wanted nothing to do with. 

Apparently there were depths to which even she would not sink. Amazing. She had learned something new about herself. 

“No, it’s how we almost lost it,” Loghain replied. “You haven’t heard about Katriel?” 

“I grew up in the Free Marches,” Kit said. “And did most of my schooling in a Circle.” 

“Orlesian bard. Seduced Maric during the Rebellion. Hundreds died because he believed her lies—and convinced me to believe them.” Loghain shrugged. “I admit I haven’t had much sympathy for that tactic ever since.” 

“Well, nothing to worry about, then,” said Kit. “I’m hoping for a completely seduction-free coup.” 

Loghain glanced at Cullen again but kept his counsel. “I’m not sure why you’d even want my advice. My last attempt to seize power didn’t go very well.” 

“You’re one and one,” said Kit. “As far as revolutionary activities go, that’s probably a great record.” 

He smiled at that. “Thank you, Kit. That is, by far, the most complimentary assessment of my military record that I’ve heard in years.” 

“So you’re going to help?”

“No.” He paused. “But if you care to ask me questions—about the past, of course, things that are over and done. The answers might be of some benefit to you.” 

“There is one thing…” Kit hummed. “You don’t mind if I’m blunt?” 

“I doubt you’d learn anything useful by being polite.” 

“How could you win the Rebellion against such long odds only to lose the Regency when you had so many resources at your command?” 

“The answer to _that_ question is fairly simple. Maric once told me that we wouldn’t have had to rebel at all if the Usurper, Meghren, had been a good king. He was saying that he cared more for the country’s well-being than for his own rank. The sentiment does him credit, of course. But there’s another way to look at it. The Rebellion would not have existed without Meghren, but neither would it have _succeeded_ without Meghren. Or another king like him. The Usurper was weak, selfish, cruel and lazy—his many failings were our greatest asset.”

Kit nodded. 

“I lost the Regency, and my title, for the same reason Meghren did,” Loghain continued. “I failed. I could go on—I remember every mistake—but that is the important point.”

“So you think, if you’d won at Ostagar, that you’d be King of Ferelden right now?” Kit paused. “Assuming King Cailan had died, I suppose.” 

He rubbed at his temple. “No, I don’t think that. For reasons I won’t explain. But you have the right idea.”

“So… only try to overthrow despots who are weak and unpopular,” said Kit. “That’s sensible enough but doesn’t really help me.” 

“But everyone is weak—in some respects. And disliked—by some.” Loghain shrugged. “I was neither weak nor unpopular before Ostagar. But I had weaknesses, and I had enemies.”

Kit pondered that. “So… pick your battles, I guess?” 

“Yes. Most battles are won or lost before a single soldier takes the field. Have power before you take power. Win before you start.” Loghain gestured behind him. They’d finally crossed out of the desert, but the specter of it still lay behind them. “Adamant, for example? I’m not sure how laying siege to it will end in anything but a slaughter.”

 

 

 


	33. win before you start

It took Solas all of ten minutes to fix her hand. He put himself to sleep and healed the burn in the Fade while she did the same in the waking world. The injury mended quickly, only the fresh pink color of the new skin to show where the burn had been, and Solas didn’t sense any change in the Mark. At least she hadn’t stumbled along for two weeks, drugged and miserable, ignoring an easy solution. It really had taken both of them.

She thanked him and returned to the mage tower, eager to be reacquainted with her bedroom, her bed, her spare clothes. With stone walls that muffled snores and easy access to a bath. 

She climbed the steep stairs, greeting everyone she passed, patting herself down in search of her key. She found it in the inside pocket of her coat, fit it into the lock, and turned it smoothly. A hard shove to the thick wooden door pushed it open. She reached for the lapels of her coat, ready to slide it off, and froze.

Her bedroom had an occupant. 

The qunari stood up from her bed as she entered, so ridiculously tall that his horns scraped the ceiling. He was huge all round, broad shouldered and thick-waisted, almost sagging under the burden of so much muscle. 

Kit conjured a fireball and held it suspended over her palm.

“Hey, now,” said the qunari, hands up and palms out. He was threatening enough without a weapon—though the axe propped against the wall behind him stood at least three feet tall and within easy reach of his long arms—but she understood the intent. 

“You must be Kit. Your friends put me in your room. They didn’t know exactly when you’d be back, but, uh…” The qunari offered his hand for a shake. “I’m The Iron Bull, and I work for you now.” 

Kit snuffed out the fireball and slipped into her room, shutting the door behind her. 

“The mercenary captain?” she asked. 

“None other.” He really did have horns shaped like a bull’s, and a patch over one eye. The harness he wore left most of his chest bare, and she couldn’t count the scars crisscrossing his dull, blue-grey skin. Dozens, some bumpy and jagged and others thin and neat. He’d obviously done his share of fighting. “I call my crew The Bull’s Chargers.”

“They’re not hiding under the bed, are they?” 

He chuckled, low and easy. “Naw. They’re here, though. Scattered about. Wouldn’t do to have us all in one place, drawing attention to ourselves.” 

“You probably manage that fairly well, all by yourself.” 

“That’s why I’m here. People really leave this room alone. Either they like you, they’re scared of you, or both.” 

“Ugh.” Kit waved away this unwelcome thought. “All right. I’m going to go down to the baths and I’ll fetch Bits and Theo on my way back. Who else has been involved in the planning?” 

“Older mage named Nina,” said Bull. “That’s it for now. They wanted to keep things quiet.” 

She didn’t get the relaxing soak she’d been hoping for, but her own eagerness drove her to hurry. Who’d made contact? How many mercenaries had this Iron Bull brought to their cause, and what did he think they could accomplish? 

Clean and dressed in a fresh set of clothes, Kit hunted down her co-conspirators: Bits practicing her fire spells out on the lake, Theo chatting with Dorian in the library, Nina working on her alchemy. 

They gathered in her room, though it was a tight fit. Iron Bull alone seemed to take up half the space, sprawled across her bed—the sheets still rumpled; he’d definitely been sleeping in it—with his back against the wall and one arm slung over the sill of the window she’d made from the former hole in the wall.

Nina sat in the room’s only chair while Theo stood guard by the door. Bits plopped down on the floor and wrapped one arm around his knee. 

“So who goes first?” said Bits, casting a muffling spell over the room to prevent eavesdroppers from listening in. “You can probably guess our news, Kit, so I vote you.” 

“And it looks like your news is _good_ news, so we might as well save it for last,” said Kit. “Mine is awful. The Grey Wardens have…” Kit trailed off. “There’s no nice way to say it. They’ve gone completely mad. All of them, en masse, seized by some sort of delusional panic.”

“The _Grey Wardens_?” Nina interrupted. “I can’t imagine a group of people _less_ likely to panic. They face down horrors every day. Darkspawn, ogres, all the worst that Thedas has to offer…” 

“Corypheus is behind it,” said Kit. “He seems to be pretty good at pushing people over the edge. Remember those Red Templars back in Haven?”

“The Templars have _always_ been crazy,” protested Bits.

“And slave-running Tevinter supremacists aren’t exactly novelties, either,” Kit added. “Well, he’s finally corrupted a bunch of ordinarily sane individuals. Time to start worrying, I guess.”  

“Andraste’s ass.” Theo paled. “What’s the Inquisition going to do? Can they help?” 

“Only if by ‘help’ you mean ‘kill all the Wardens,’ because that seems to be the plan.” Kit winced. “I told you my news was bad.” 

“Not _all_ of them,” Nina objected. “They can’t!” 

“All the Wardens in Orlais, then,” said Kit. “They’re all holed up in a gigantic and highly defensible fortress in the Western Approach. Cullen’s going to need every soldier he’s got and then some, if he wants to take it. It’ll be ugly.” 

“Oh, _Cullen_ is he now?” Bits teased. 

Kit rolled her eyes. “You spend a month camping with someone, _any_ one, and you’re on a first-name basis by the end of the first week. I should introduce you to my new friend Loghain. He’s around here somewhere.” 

“Loghain?” squawked Bits, Theo, and Nina almost in unison.

“Yeah, and Hawke. You know, the Champion of Kirkwall?” Kit frowned. “Though I think she hates me.” 

“You have had quite an adventure,” said Nina. 

“I really have. The upside is that Skyhold is going to empty out,” said Kit. “They’ll mobilize quickly and they’ll be gone for weeks.” 

“I guess that’s our cue,” said Bits. “Iron Bull? You want to tell Kit what you told us?” 

“I thought you might have come to us with a real challenge,” said Iron Bull. “Escaping a place like this could have gotten real hairy. I was starting to get excited. But after what you’ve just told me… it’ll be a cakewalk. Once Skyhold is down to a skeleton crew, my Chargers will be able to get every man, woman, and child to the other side of the bridge without breaking a sweat.” 

“The challenge is deciding where to go next,” said Nina. “We’ve been expelled from Ferelden. Orlais is at war, and we have no idea how the victor will feel about mages. That leaves a few options. Rivain, if we can get there. The Anderfels, if we can tolerate the harsh environment. Maybe Antiva, though I wouldn’t want to march in blindly.” 

“We’ve been thinking about splitting up,” said Bits. “That way at least some of us will make it to safety. Maybe three or four groups, one of us leading each, and if one group manages to settle successfully, we try to make room for the rest.”

“The Chargers can provide escort,” said Iron Bull. “Do it all the time. Nothing to worry about, though depending on where you want us to go, it’ll cost you.” 

“Gold won’t be a problem,” said Theo. “Which is why I vote for Rivain. We can hire ships. As many as we need.” 

“I think…” Kit rubbed her palms over her face. They were talking about walking into uncertainty, with only a faint hope of success. What had Loghain said? _Win before you start_. This escape plan was the opposite of that. 

The _exact_ opposite, come to think of it. So how could they turn it around?

The Inquisition would be distracted, all their attention and resources directed elsewhere. _That_ was the opportunity, _that_ was the weakness the mages had to exploit. And not by wandering off without a goal in mind. 

“I think maybe we’ve been going about this all wrong,” said Kit.

Bits grinned. “Here we go.” 

“We’re in a safe place right now,” said Kit. “Lots of room for everyone, neutral ground, remote. It’s perfect. If we leave, the best we can hope for is… what? A year of wandering? More? Not to lose too many people on the way? And that’s if we’re _lucky_.” 

“Don’t tell me you want to join the Inquisition,” Nina scoffed.

“I’ve been saying for a while that it’s not such a bad idea,” countered Theo. “What use is a mage paradise if nothing else changes? How will the mages who are toddlers now ever _reach_ us?” 

“I don’t want to join the Inquisition.” Kit shook her head. Theo was wrong. Change would come. They would make it happen. But first they needed to establish themselves. They needed power, standing. “We’re going to _take_ what we already _have_. We’re going to kick the Inquisition out of Skyhold and keep it for ourselves.” 

Iron Bull whistled. “Now _this_ sounds like fun.”

 


	34. reckless caution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. I've had to sit on my fingers to stop myself from replying; in fact, I should sit on my fingers NOW and not explain why it's safer that I don't reply. 
> 
> The next few chapters are turning out to be longish and tricky. Lots of action, lots of emotion... lots of scenes that I've been working up to since Haven. I'm going to slow the posting down to twice a week for a while, though the heftier chapters should offset the change somewhat. 
> 
> Thanks for coming along for the ride & vive la revolution!

Kit went to visit Harrit the next morning. Sweating her way through the Western Approach had convinced her to fashion a set of armor she could wear without putting herself in constant danger of heatstroke. 

Harrit had some ideas about suitable materials and he let her scavenge freely from his scrap pile. She collected a hefty armload of bits and pieces and thanked him on her way out. 

Varric was missing from his usual post by the fire in the main hall, though he’d left the tools of his trade scattered about: blank sheets of paper, ink and quills, a pile of books haphazardly stacked. 

Kit thumbed through a stack of sealed letters, wondering what famous names she’d find on the envelopes, when she heard Solas call out a greeting in his rotunda. She snapped to attention, but he wasn’t talking to her—he was looking to the staircase leading up to the library. 

Varric returned the greeting gaily and Kit backed away from the table, an odd sinking sensation in her gut. 

He wasn’t holding any books. 

And, sure, that was easy to explain. Maybe he’d gone to return books he’d already read. Maybe he needed to fill out a requisition form. Maybe he only needed to check a reference and didn’t want to clutter up the table with a book he’d only need once. 

But maybe he’d gone to the rookery. 

She’d kept her revolutionary fervor to herself since that night in Crestwood, when she’d asked Loghain about throwing a coup. But Varric was a smart man, and she’d caught a few of the speculative looks he cast her way. Sharper and sharper as the days passed, especially when he caught her talking to Loghain. He hadn’t forgotten. 

She couldn’t blame him if he’d shared his suspicions with Leliana. It would be, for him, the right thing to do. He believed in the Inquisition. He wanted it to succeed. 

She blamed _herself_. She’d spoken too freely. She’d gotten Loghain on her side, sort of, so the benefits might outweigh the costs… but whatever Varric had been up to just now, she ought to proceed as though Leliana were watching. 

Kit deposited the scraps in her room before trotting back down to the courtyard and into the tunnels beneath the fortress. She found Nina waiting in the wine cellar and followed the older woman deeper into the labyrinth, beyond the rooms lit by torches and braziers and into the cool, dry darkness. 

“It’ll take a few tries before you learn the route,” said Nina, setting the tip of her staff aglow. Kit did the same, increasingly lost as the corridors branched and curved. 

Finally they reached a set of closed doors that leaked light around the edges, heard the muffled rumble of voices. Nina knocked.

A man opened the door, tan, hair cropped close along the sides and dashingly long on the top. “Nina. Good to see you.” He had a clear voice rubbed ever so lightly with sandpaper. “And this must be the mage we’ve been waiting on? Bull told me you made him change your sheets.” 

“Yeah, but I let him keep the bed and I slept on the floor,” said Kit. “So if he’s been complaining, I might have to maim him.” 

“No complaints.” Iron Bull pulled doorkeeper aside and gestured for Kit and Nina to come in. “I was just very… impressed. With your firmness. I like that in a woman.” 

Kit eyed the qunari speculatively. He really knew how to sell himself, didn’t he? Not at all shy, either. 

“This is Krem,” continued Iron Bull, gesturing to the doorkeeper. “My second in command. And these are the rest of the Chargers.” 

He introduced them one by one, though Kit only caught a few of the names. They were a motley crew, different ages, different races, hailing from all over Thedas. But they seemed cheerful even after being cooped up for days in a musty, dim underground hideaway. That had to be a good sign.

“Where’s Aileen?” Kit asked, when she saw Bits and Theo sitting among the mercenaries, side by side on a three-legged bench propped up by a stack of rubble. “I’ve been looking for her all morning. She ought to be here.” 

“Aileen is gone.” Nina snuffed out her staff and accepted a chair that a dwarf vacated for her. “She volunteered to make contact with The Chargers. We snuck her out of Skyhold in a cart full of refuse and Lady Vivienne was _not_ pleased when she discovered one of the mages had vanished.” 

Kit rubbed her hand over her heart. How long would Aileen last, wandering alone through the countryside? She’d volunteered for a _death sentence_.  

“She was in good shape when she reached us,” said Krem, hopping onto a table and resting his elbows on his knees. “Tougher than she looks, that friend of yours.” 

“I hope…” Kit sighed. “I hope she can survive long enough for us to welcome her back.” 

“She left you Ginevra’s staff,” added Nina. “Too valuable to take with her.”

“Oh.” Kit blinked away tears. Bits patted the bench at her side. Kit took a seat next to her friend, snuggling close when Bits wrapped an arm around her waist. “That was brave of her.” 

“Someone had to go,” said Bits. “Someone we could count on.” 

“So now everyone’s here,” said Iron Bull, standing in the middle of the room with his feet planted wide, arms crossed over his chest. “And we’ve got the beginnings of a plan. We’re going to wait for the Inquisition to vacate the premises and take over the fortress while it’s undefended. Good. Now how can that go wrong?” 

“I can think of one thing that will ruin it all,” said Bits. 

“That’s good,” said Iron Bull. “Here’s how this works. You explain, and together we’ll figure out how to solve the problem. Every issue we troubleshoot now will make our lives easier when it’s go time.” 

“If the situation is as desperate as it sounds, the Commander’s going to want mages fighting with the Inquisition forces,” said Bits. “That’s why we’re here, right? Conscripts? If he takes enough of us with him, there won’t be any _point_ in taking the fortress. The Inquisition will come back with hostages and threats and that will be it.” 

“Shit,” muttered Kit. 

“Two things,” said Iron Bull, holding up two fingers and then folding one down. “One, I think this calls for a backup plan. And two?” The second finger reappeared. “You need to decide how many people you’re willing to lose.”

“Willing to lose?” Theo echoed. 

“Where do you draw the line? If he wants five mages fighting for him, ten mages, twenty? Your girl here is right. Once we’ve captured the fortress, they’ll be used against you. You’ve got to be ready to let them go.” 

“Let them die, you mean,” said Nina. 

Iron Bull nodded. 

“We can control this,” said Kit. “Find volunteers…” 

“That would mean telling more people about our plan,” said Bits. “And I’m going to go ahead and admit that I am _not_ in favor. If some of the mages here at Skyhold have lost their taste for rebellion, we can always let them go. But if we confide in the wrong person, they could ruin it for _all_ of us.” 

“Speaking of which…” said Kit. 

That won her some sharp looks. 

“I said a few things that I shouldn’t have to Varric,” said Kit. “A while ago, when we went out to Crestwood together. It was stupid, and I’m worried that he reported to the council.”  

“You’d know if he told the Commander, wouldn’t you?” asked Bits. “Now that you’re so close.” 

“Ha ha.” Kit tried not to look guilty. The teasing meant Bits still found the idea of Kit and Cullen’s closeness funny, absurd. “But, yeah, I think so. Whatever his opinion of you, you know it. He’s not the type to show a false face.” 

“Again, this is _good_ ,” said Iron Bull. “You messed up. Made a bad call. That’s fine. Now we know that we need to be careful, take extra precautions.”

“It’s never a bad idea to be careful,” added Krem. “As long as he doesn’t know any specifics…” 

“No,” said Kit. “I learned my lesson. He hasn’t heard any more from me.”

“But you might want to limit your contact with the rest of us,” said Iron Bull. “If the Inquisition has eyes on you, do us all a favor and lead those eyes somewhere else.”

Kit nodded. “Done.” 

“What else?” asked Iron Bull. “Why don’t we talk about food. What do we do if the Inquisition tries to starve us out of Skyhold?” 

Theo pointed out that probably Skyhold had already been prepared to withstand a siege and promised to make a survey of the foodstores. Nina wanted to buy seeds from the Skyhold merchants, so they could till the ornamental garden and build greenhouses by the stables. 

Kit pulled a fist-sized chunk of wood from her pocket and spelled a small enchanted blade into her palm. She whittled the wood into a spinning top while she listened, soothed as solution followed problem followed solution. 

Iron Bull was so calm and competent; they were in good hands. But he was right. Her presence here put the whole scheme at risk. She needed to occupy herself elsewhere… and why not kill two birds with one stone? She could keep track of the battle plans while she was at it. 

When the meeting ended, the mages scattered. Kit tossed the spinning top to Krem—“You must be getting bored down here by now”—and followed Nina back to the wine cellar. Nina continued on while Kit dawdled, so they wouldn’t all emerge from the tunnels at once. No need to announce that they were having a secret meeting.

She found Loghain on a platform overlooking the courtyard. He wore full armor, just as he had in the wilderness, and leaned over a low wall, forearms flat against the stone and fingers laced together. 

“Odd choice for a view,” she said, when he nodded a greeting. “I’d be looking at the mountains.” 

“This Inquisition is unlike any organization I’ve ever encountered,” said Loghain. “I’m trying to figure out how it works.” 

“By monitoring who comes and goes from the tavern?”  

“Among other things. I’d be interested to know where you’ve been this last hour and a half. Not popping down to the kitchens for a snack, I’d wager.” 

Kit’s heart made a solid attempt to batter its way out of her chest. 

“I see I guessed right.” Loghain thin, colorless lips stretched wide; a grimace of satisfaction, not a smile. “No need to panic. I take no side, remember? I won’t interfere.” 

But he wanted her to know that he could. Terrifying old man. 

“You had something to discuss?” he asked. “I assume that’s why you’re here. Since you haven’t come for the view.” 

“Oh.” Kit leaned her back against the wall, so she faced the Warden. “I was wondering what happened in the War Room today.” 

“And you came to me?” Loghain jerked his chin toward the watchtower that served Cullen for an office. “Why not ask the Commander? I’m sure he’d tell you.” 

Kit shrugged. She doubted Cullen would make a distinction between pumping him for information and sneaking around behind his back hatching plots, but _she_ did. The former was an abuse of trust, the latter fair play. 

“The Council agrees that the Wardens must be stopped,” said Loghain. “Preparations to lay siege to Adamant have begun.”

“ _That’s_ no surprise,” said Kit. “It’s been a foregone conclusion ever since Cullen saw what happened at the ritual tower.” 

“But still a relief to have it settled.” Loghain rubbed his palms together. “So. If that’s not what you wanted to know…” 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” 

“I take my amusements where they come,” he admitted. “If you want to know what reserves will be left here at Skyhold, it hasn’t been decided yet.” 

She _did_ want to know that, though she’d never have asked so bluntly. Given his reputation as a tactician, she shouldn’t be surprised that he’d sussed out so much of her plan. Come to think of it, he’d practically _made it_ _for_ _her_. Led her down a trail of breadcrumbs and left her to find the prize at the end. 

 _Traitor Teyrn_. Kit shivered. 

“Actually, I just want to make sure…” Kit swallowed. “I want to make sure that I’ll be able to go. That I’ll be able to fight.” 

“Ah.” That surprised him. “Then you should approach your Lady Vivienne. That’s her domain.” 

Kit scowled. Whatever Vivienne thought that Kit wanted, she would try to make the opposite happen. “Ugh.” 

Loghain laughed. “She wears a remarkably similar expression on her face when your name comes up, did you know that?”

“I’m not surprised.”

“How much of my history do you know?” Loghain asked. “The tale of my first battle used to be widely told.” 

“Um.” Kit searched her meager store of knowledge. “I know about the Battle of River Dane? Or that there _was_ a Battle of River Dane. And, er… something in Gwaren? First a battle went badly, then one went well. Or was it the other way around?”

“Humbling,” said Loghain dryly. “Very humbling. I suppose I’ll tell you, then. My first battle looked to be a rout. We were surprised by an Orlesian attack, no time to flee, vastly outnumbered. I was, oh, eighteen. In the mood to do something reckless. I had the idea of convincing the Orlesians that Maric had abandoned his men and letting them spot him as he fled to safety. That would force the Orlesians to split their forces: some to capture Maric, the rest to face the rebel army.”

“Okay,” said Kit, not sure how this story related to her predicament. 

“Well, of course Maric couldn’t be risked on such a diversion. It would be too dangerous, very nearly a suicide mission.” Loghain paused. “So I volunteered for the job. I wore Maric’s purple cloak and helmet, which was enough to convince the Orlesians I was the prince in truth. They saw me galloping away from the rebel army with a small group of picked men and send a quarter of their forces after us.” 

“But you survived?” 

“Yes. We led them a merry chase before making a stand on a high cliff, forcing the Orlesians to approach by a narrow trail in twos and threes. Good enough ground that we held out until help arrived, and the day was won.” Loghain shrugged. “My point is: I know what it’s like to put myself in the line of fire as a decoy.” 

“Um.” Nausea roiled in Kit’s gut. She had really screwed up back in Crestwood, hadn’t she? 

“As it happens,” Loghain continued, “I’ll be leading a small team during the siege, attempting a sweep through the fortress while the Commander tackles the walls. If you don’t want to work with Lady Vivienne, you could come with me.” 

Kit blinked. “Really?” 

“You saved my life when you took the blast Erimond had meant for me. That’s as good a recommendation as any.” 

“Okay.” Kit nodded. “Thank you.” She held out her hand. “I accept.” 

Loghain shook it, very solemnly. 

Kit pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, found the skin hot and clammy. Her underarms were slippery, too. 

“Well.” Kit looked out over the courtyard, wondering what else he’d observed while he’d been up here. The Inquisition _was_  an odd organization, wasn’t it? Full of clever, dangerous people who weren’t quite honest about why they’d banded together. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

Kit left the platform where Loghain stood watch and circled round the battlements. She reached the stairs that led down to the courtyard but, on an impulse that she didn’t give herself time to question, changed her mind and continued on to Cullen’s watch tower. 

“There you are.” He looked up from a pile of papers with a warm smile. All the tension that had coiled tighter and tighter since she saw Varric in the rotunda eased, and she could breathe again. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Oh?” Kit circled round the desk and propped her hip against the long edge, a few inches from his bent elbow. “About what?” 

“The mages,” said Cullen. “I spoke to Lady Vivienne this morning. She proposes that we take only a small group of carefully selected mages to Adamant. She believes that the chaos of battle would push most of the mages here at Skyhold over the edge, that we’d have abominations on our hands rather than allies at our backs. I’d like to hear your opinion before I decide. A single mage can turn the tide of battle and this one… will be difficult. Would you trust your comrades to fight with us? Do you think they’re up to the challenge?” 

“I think…” _that Vivienne is right. That you should take as few mages as possible and leave the rest of us here_. She tried to force the words out, but they wouldn’t come. 

She’d played a part in bringing the mages here, and she _owed_ it to them to do absolutely everything in her power to get them out. Owed it to herself, too; this plan was more than the work of a moment. Years of effort culminated here and now. People she loved had _died_ hoping that one day an opportunity like this would arise.

Kit swallowed. She would see this through. It would make her sick, she would _hate_ herself—maybe forever—but she’d play her part. “I think…” 

Why did he have to ask? Stupid man. He made her feel so small and so rotten. 

“You’ve nothing to be afraid of.” Cullen stood, mirrored her pose. “Things are going to change, Kit. After we return from Adamant, I want to sit down with the rest of the Council and discuss the position of mages here in the Inquisition. I want you to be there.”

She could not listen to another word of this. Not one more word. It would kill her. 

And so, when he opened his mouth and yet another kind, thoughtful, _ruinous_ offer threatened to spill out, she lunged at him. Seized his breastplate—not the loose surcoat, the _breastplate_ , buckled on tight—and covered his mouth with her own. 

He stiffened, unresponsive. She tightened her grip. If he wanted her to stop, he’d have to pry her loose. 

She slowed her wild panting and coaxed instead, rising up on tiptoes so she could fit her mouth to his properly. She lifted her free hand and brushed the backs of her curled fingers over his cheek, lightly stubbled, then along the side of his neck to tickle the short hairs at his nape. 

And feel the tension there, the tendons taut and hard. He hadn’t moved since she grabbed him, not a fraction of an inch. If he breathed, she couldn’t tell. 

But she could not return to that conversation. _Could not_. So even though she was embarrassed, ashamed—ashamed of everything, of her very existence—she let her hand fall away from his neck and reached, instead, for more dangerous territory. For his hip, protected only by a pair of trousers. 

 _Give in_ she nearly begged, hooking her fingers underneath his sword belt and dragging the blade out of her way. She let go and skimmed her fingertips across, until they rested on the tight curve of his ass. 

He jolted. Finally, a reaction. She nipped his lower lip, goading him, molding her body against his.

Ah. Yes. He was interested. At least in one way, one very basic way, he wanted her. 

He tore his mouth from hers. “Kit—”

_No. No talking._

She gave his ass a squeeze and rolled her hips. 

That broke him. And it _felt_ like a break, violent but invisible, that shattered his restraint. He grabbed her, one big hand cupping her rear and the other firm underneath the opposite arm, and lifted her onto his desk, sitting her upright with her feet dangling in the air. That done he reached without hesitation for her hips, hands parallel as they inched down her thighs. Almost to her knees, but not quite, he reversed his grip and spread her legs wide enough for him to step inside the space he’d opened up.

Kit groaned. _Permission_. Had she given herself permission? She’d wanted his body almost from the moment she laid eyes on it, though now she mostly wanted the man himself. Wanted his attention and his dedication, his concern and his patience, the hard-won strength of his character. 

She wanted so much, and she had denied herself all of it. But his body—she ground against him, the thick bulge in his trousers right where it belonged, where it felt best—she had finally seized on an excuse that would allow her to enjoy this one part of him, this one inadequate but _completely fucking glorious_ part. 

He snarled his fingers in her hair, holding her still for a kiss, and petted her throat as he moved his mouth over hers, tender, almost hesitant caresses. He was such a mess of contradictions, her Cullen, but _oh_ by all the absent and uncaring gods it was a fine thing to be held by him. 

The door opened with a bang as his lips slid down her throat and his hands fell to her breasts. 

“Commander!” shouted the intruder, a knight, flinging out the word before he’d taken in the scene. Horror dawned, he cringed, but it was too late. 

Cullen snapped to attention. He turned on the poor man, shifting his weight from foot to foot like she’d seen him do before a fight. “ _What?_ ” 

Kit shivered at the brutal bark of his voice. That, too, was a voice she’d only heard from him in extreme situations. In battle, when gravely wounded. 

The poor knight turned green, quaking—literally _quaking_ —in his boots.  “M-m-madame Vivienne,” he stuttered. “She says you must come im-mm-ediately.” 

Cullen snarled. “You may tell _Madame Vivienne_ —”

“That he’ll be right out,” finished Kit, sliding off the desk.

Cullen stiffened, the fur on his surcoat bristling, but she stared resolutely at the corner of the room while she tugged her clothes back into place. Chances were good that one look at his face would rip what was left of her shriveled black heart to shreds. 

This fool of a knight had come to offer her an escape. She’d call it providence, and go. 


	35. marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting

Cullen forced his gaze away from Kit, if only because Ser Yellen had seen enough—had bloody well seen more than enough—and until Cullen mastered himself, anyone who looked would be able to read him like an open book. 

And what Yellen would see, if Cullen turned that way… he did not even want to face the refection of it. 

“Where?” he snapped. 

“In the courtyard,” answered Yellen. “Just by the tavern. You won’t miss her, Commander. There’s a crowd.” 

He was tempted to send the man away alone. Delay long enough to have a last word with Kit. But he wouldn’t be able to stop at a word. Or, quite frankly, at _words_. Not when his hands itched to hold her and he _craved_ the lewd noises she’d been making and his— 

He wrenched his thoughts onto a different path. Madame Vivienne had sent for him. A crowd had gathered. Quite possibly, something very bad was taking place right at that moment, just beyond his door. 

He felt rather than saw Kit trailing behind him as he strode down the battlements. The size of the crowd spurred him on; he took the stairs three at a time. 

He pushed his way through the press of bodies, angry shouts flying overhead. He cleared a path to the calm at the center of the storm, where the onlookers reversed their direction, squirming and shoving away from the horror inside. 

An abomination. Cullen noted the unnatural lumps and angles beneath the mage robes, the swollen head and soft, gaping maw; almost all the mage’s teeth had scattered in the transformation. One eye had burst and leaked fluid down the creature’s swollen cheek; the other glowed with violet light. 

Cullen took it all in, every detail, because Vivienne had frozen the abomination in a block of clear ice. Had _put it on display_. 

He loathed the Game. Hadn’t the stomach for it. But he played chess almost every day, and he recognized strategy when he saw it. Clumsy, shoddy strategy at that. The first abomination to appear among the mages since they’d arrived from Redcliffe, and it happened _now_? Less than a day after he told Vivienne that he wanted a second opinion on a matter concerning the mages? 

She had snarled at him from across the War Table, told him only a fool would ask _Katherine_ for advice. Now she posed with one hand on her cocked hip, pristine in a dress of flame-orange silk, the satin-wrapped horns of her hat curving back from her temples with qunari ferocity. 

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Commander,” said Vivienne. “I did not think it was my place to pass judgment on this poor creature.” 

Cullen scanned the crowd. Mostly civilians. Only a few mages scattered about, about an equal number of Templars. “Any injuries?” 

“Just one,” answered Vivienne. “A private who stood bravely between the abomination and the innocents it attacked. I offered her some healing before sending her to the infirmary. With luck, she will make a full recovery.” 

“And this…” Cullen trailed off. He could not tell if the abomination had been a man or a woman. 

“His name was Philip,” said Kit, from behind him. 

Cullen clenched his jaw. He had no doubt that Vivienne had provoked the incident, sacrificing a man’s _life_ to shore up her own flagging influence. She cast him in the role of executioner to drive away allies among the rebel mages—and one ally in particular—believing she could force him to rely on her, instead. A miscalculation, as she would soon discover. 

But whatever had led to this moment, it could only end one way. He would not be ashamed of doing the right thing, the _necessary_ thing.

“This man is beyond saving?” Cullen asked, though he knew the answer. It might be possible to force the demon back into the Fade, but the body that had served as host would not survive. 

“The only mercy left to him is death,” Vivienne announced.

“Ser Kendall, Ser Balon.” Cullen named two of the Templars he’d spotted among the gawkers, the two he knew best. “Disperse the crowd and attend on me when you are done.” 

Groans and protests sprang up all around, but the two Templars saluted and set to their task. 

“It’s lucky that you were on hand,” said Cullen. “Without a mage of your caliber nearby, we might be mourning a much greater tragedy right now.” 

“It should not have happened at all,” Vivienne replied sternly. 

“No,” Cullen agreed. “It should not have.” 

Kendall and Balon flanked him. A few spectators lingered—Kit among them, half-hidden behind a training dummy—but they’d done well, given the setting. The courtyard of Skyhold was much like a public square. 

“With naked steel, only a beheading is certain to end the demon,” Cullen said quietly, in case either of the two knights at his side had never encountered an abomination before. “Ser Kendall, you will see to the pyre and help me carry the body away. Ser Balon, you will track down _every_ witness to the mage’s transformation. Find out what happened and report to me before we leave for Adamant.” 

Vivienne frowned.

Kendall and Balon saluted. 

Cullen drew his sword. 

Vivienne released her ice spell and Cullen separated head from body in a single, practiced strike. An elven servant darted forward with a clean white sheet, but Cullen waved her away and gestured for Kendall to help him bundle up the remains. They carried the body to the cramped, bare courtyard where the butcher did his slaughtering. 

They stacked wood for the pyre, a quick job with the two of them working together. Then they laid the body atop the bier, still wrapped in its sheet, and Cullen took a torch to the kindling.

“You’ll have to stand guard until the fire has reduced him to ash,” Cullen told Ser Kendall. “The Veil thins around pyres, and demons are drawn to the bodies of the possessed.” 

“Understood, Commander,” said Ser Kendall. 

“It’s not a pleasant duty, but it is a necessary one,” said Cullen. “Thank you, Ser Kendall.” 

He trudged back across the courtyard and up the stairs to the battlements, only to find Loghain waiting for him in his office. 

“You wanted to review the siege plans?” asked the Warden.

“Yes. Thank you for coming.” Cullen gestured for him to take a seat and set about unrolling a map of Adamant across the desk. “If you see something I’ve missed, I want to know.” 

Loghain bent over the desk, tracing the lines on the map with his index finger. “These are choke points you’ve marked?” 

“That’s right. If we control them, we control the field of battle. We’ll cut off reinforcements, prevent you from being overwhelmed. Give you the best possible chance of reaching Clarel.” 

“Provided you can get a foothold on the battlements,” said Loghain. “How many trebuchets has the lady ambassador wrangled for us?” 

“Six. And a battering ram.”

“Good. Though you ought to expect high casualties,” warned Loghain. “And if the Wardens have demons…” 

“I know.” 

“I expect all the mages we encounter will be slaves to Corypheus and beyond saving. But the warriors may listen to reason,” said Loghain. “I’m hardly a beloved figure in my Order, but I’ll do my poor best.” 

“I’m still uncertain about how many mages to bring,” said Cullen. “Madame Vivienne suggests a small group, less than a dozen, and the incident today certainly… illustrates the danger. But I’ve been wondering if it may not be worth the risk to recruit a larger contingent of mages into our expedition force.” 

“More mages?” Loghain looked up from the map, suddenly intent. “The very last thing I’d expect a Templar to propose.” 

“Former Templar,” Cullen corrected. “And I’ve been reconsidering my views of late.” 

“Nudged along by the pretty mage, no doubt.” Loghain narrowed his eyes. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. “Have you never wondered if Kit’s interest in you is driven by some… ulterior motive?”

Cullen tapped at his desk. A friend might have posed the question without offending. From Loghain it was rude, insulting. But probably necessary. Cullen's subordinates would never ask. It wouldn’t occur to his peers on the Council; they hadn’t seen him interact with her, as Loghain had. 

“Very often,” said Cullen. 

“Yet you seem undeterred.” 

“If she thinks to make use of me, I can’t see how. She never hesitates to speak her mind—you’ve observed as much—but I’ve _asked_ for her input on decisions that concern her, and she will not answer. I wanted her opinion about bringing mages to the siege, for example; she wouldn’t say a word.” 

Something flickered in Loghain’s expression. “Is that so?” 

“You find that suspicious?” 

“No. Only curious. I, too, find her oddly persuasive; I’d like to know her secret.” Loghain shifted, settling himself more firmly on his feet. “You should know that Kit asked to join my company in Adamant, and I accepted her offer.” 

“Then you’ll have to tell her that you’ve changed your mind,” snapped Cullen. “Are you mad? You’ve volunteered for most dangerous role in the siege, and I won’t stop you. But she’s no soldier, and if she’s to accompany us at all, her place is well away from the front lines. No. I forbid it.” 

“My team is mine to choose,” said Loghain, his level tone laced with threat. “I’d think long and hard before you fought me on this.” 

Cullen rose to his full height. “The Inquisition _tolerates_ you, Warden Loghain. No more than that.”

“Your Spymaster spends more time praying than doing her job and your Head Enchanter practically declared war on you this afternoon. You can’t _afford_ to make an enemy of me, not now. Not until the battle is over.” Loghain tapped the map, his index finger landing unerringly on the thick black lines that indicated the fortress’s front gates. “You will batter down these doors. You will grant me entry into Adamant. And with your pet at my back, I trust that you will do your _very_ best to keep us alive.” 

Cullen inhaled to a count of ten, exhaled. Loghain intended to provoke; Cullen would not give him the satisfaction. “You are dismissed, Warden.” 

Loghain hesitated. 

Cullen tapped at his desk, counting the seconds. If the bastard wanted a tour of the dungeons, Cullen would oblige. 

On the third tap, Loghain bowed briefly and left.

Cullen stared uneasily at the closed door. The outrage would fade, and then he’d decide what to do. Calmly, rationally, and with the good of the Inquisition in mind. 

For now, however… he summoned the former Grand Enchanter to his office. Perhaps the third time would be the charm. 

Fiona responded immediately. Stoop-shouldered but serene, she approached his desk and clasped her hands behind her back. 

“Yes, Commander?” 

“As you know, the Inquisition is preparing an assault on Adamant fortress. You were a Warden, for a time. You know how fiercely the Wardens fight. We will need every weapon at our disposal if we are to succeed. Madame Vivienne advises that we include only a small contingent of mages in the expedition force, leaving the rest here at Skyhold—with Templars that we cannot spare to guard them. I’d like your opinion.”

Fiona nodded slowly. “Madame Vivienne is to lead this company of mages?” 

“That is the plan.”

“Then take only a small group. Few of the mages here at Skyhold will follow her commands willingly.”

“And if I appointed another mage to captain the mages—you perhaps? You have the knowledge and the experience to handle the task.” 

“Then I would suggest you ask for volunteers. Those mages who feel capable will step forward. You might be pleasantly surprised by the results.” 

“Thank you, Fiona. That’s just what I wanted to know.” 

Fiona bowed and left.

Vivienne had become a problem. But Cullen had not recruited her, and he did not have the authority to dismiss her. That required the whole Inquisition Council, and he’d want to start that discussion with the results of Ser Balon’s investigation in hand. 

He could appoint his own lieutenants, of course. Set Vivienne aside and put Fiona in her place. His forces would benefit from the extra mages; he didn’t doubt that Fiona could collect more volunteers than Vivienne would include in her select group. 

But after today’s display, he feared sabotage. He couldn’t guess what lengths Vivienne might go to, and he wouldn’t play games of brinksmanship with his own men, let alone the future of the world. 

So Vivienne would have her way… one last time. 

As for Loghain? If he were one of Cullen’s men, he’d demote him. Possibly discharge him. But Loghain was a temporary ally, and he’d done little more than mark his territory. Like a dog pissing on a tree. Harmless enough, for all that it was aggravating; Cullen would deal with Kit separately, and that would be it. 

Cullen reached for the bottom drawer of his desk and stood up before he could open it. Kit had kept him sane on the long journey back from the Western Approach; if she could suffer a badly burned hand, then he could survive the cravings that had spiked after his fleeting taste of lyrium. 

The worst was over now, but the day had been difficult enough that he was ready to reach for any crutch that might help him limp through what remained. 

He took himself to the training yard instead, worked every muscle to jelly and soothed the incipient ache with a hot bath. By the time he returned to his office night had fallen. He paused at his door, looking across to the light spilling out from the tiny, scattered windows in the mage tower, wondering which was Kit’s. 

What had come over her? He’d promised to change the Inquisition; had he crossed a line in the sand that she had drawn and he had never before seen? 

For a few minutes she had been unrestrained, fierce, overwhelming him with the sheer _intensity_ of her desire. He hadn’t dared to believe at first. And then _Finally_ he had thought, _Finally_ and _yes_ and _more_.

And now… he couldn’t even guess. She’d watched him slay the abomination. He had done the right thing, and perhaps she would admit it. But that didn’t mean she could care for him. 

“She understands,” said Cole, appearing just at the edge of Cullen’s vision. “About the _screamingcryingfrightened_ … about the _lostflailingconfused_ … about _Philip_.” 

“Hello, Cole. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yes, you have.” 

Oh.

“I could hear you worrying, but you shouldn’t.” Cole folded the drooping brim of his hat up and back, peered wide-eyed at Cullen. “When she thinks about you, sees you in her mind, you… glow. Bright, from the inside. It’s beautiful.” 

Cullen’s neck flushed hot. He rubbed at it. “You shouldn’t… If Kit wants to share her thoughts, she knows where to find me.”

“But that’s what you needed to know. It helped.” 

“She probably would feel… safer… if she could keep those thoughts from me.”

“And you want her to feel safe,” said Cole. “You’ll remake the world for her, if you have to, but she’ll always be safest with you. You try to show her but it doesn’t work. The more you convince her, the more unsafe she feels.” 

“What?” 

“She wants to protect you, too,” said the spirit boy, and vanished. 

Cullen sighed and backed into his office. Still a week until they marched, and he’d already reached the stage where he just wanted it to be over. As ever, when enthusiasm failed determination had to pick up the slack. Back to work. 

 

 


	36. this wasn't about living. it was about dying.

Kit spent most of the next week in the undercroft, working on her new armor. She relocated into the courtyard for a few hours each afternoon, partly to enjoy the sunshine but mostly to put her innocence on display. No plotting here! No siree! Just a new coat and a selfless desire to risk her life for the good of all.

A shadow fell over her one afternoon while she was lining one sleeve of patchwork silk with a thin silverite mesh. 

“I’ve never considered the advantages of magical tailoring before,” said Dorian, “but you make a good case for it.” 

Kit grinned up at him. “For heavier materials, heat seals are really superior to anything you can do with needle and thread. Especially if you mix and match, like I am.” 

“Good work with the enchantments, as well.” He dropped to one knee and tested the thickness of the sleeve. “Do you think you could make me one of these?” 

“You really want one?” 

“I fear for my delicate constitution in the Western Approach.” 

“You’re coming to Adamant?” 

“Yes, at Cassandra’s request. I was glad to accept. Much as I love Skyhold’s library, I didn’t travel all the way from Tevinter to sit in an armchair and _read_.” 

“Bring me the materials and I’ll get to work,” said Kit. “I’ll need to take some measurements, though.” 

“Measurements? I know what _that_ entails. I suppose there ought to be _some_ benefit to you in the exchange.” Dorian tweaked her ear as he headed off toward the merchant booths. 

The new armor went into her rucksack the night before the army was scheduled to march. She threw it over her shoulder in the pre-dawn, took up Ginevra’s staff, and made one last round through the mage tower to say goodbye to her friends. It had been hard to keep away, hard to give up her stake in the coup. But she believed in her friends, and she told them so. “It’s real this time,” she whispered in Nina’s ear. “You can do this,” she told Theo and Bits, hugging them tight.

“One last thing before I go,” she added, thinking this was an odd speech to make to a couple sitting sleepily on their shared bed wearing pajamas. “The second I cross that bridge, you must proceed as if I'm dead.” 

In the end, Cullen had agreed to Vivienne’s plan. Vivienne had picked a dozen of her cronies and, without knowing it, made life a lot simpler for the rebel mages. 

“We’ll have hostages of our own,” said Theo. “Half a dozen Templars left to guard us, fifteen of the regulars to man the battlements. If the Inquisition is willing to trade, we’ll get you back.” 

“Don’t be surprised when they tell you I’m worth any five of them. It would be true.” Kit’s quick grin faded. “I’d like to think I have _some_ chance of surviving all this, but I know the risks. Whatever they do—if they start sending you my fingers one by one, or torture me until I beg for concessions—I'm giving you permission not to care. You take Skyhold and you _keep_ it.” 

Bits seized Kit and pulled her into a final hug. “We’ll make them hear us,” she whispered in Kit’s ear.

Kit’s throat clogged as she remembered the last time she’d heard those words: at the Chantry in Haven, before she went out to meet the dragon, the magister, and her death. 

She reached out blindly and Bits and Theo wrapped their arms around her and held on tight. She breathed their mingled scents, mana and sweat, cotton and elfroot, soaked in their strength and their love. 

After such an emotional farewell, the march itself was anti-climactic. Slow and boring. Cullen was busy, which made it easier to pretend that she wasn’t avoiding him… though she absolutely was. She couldn’t lie to him. She couldn’t tell him the truth. Put those two together, and she couldn’t talk to him at all.  

She tagged along with Dorian and Solas, who shared a tent and sniped companionably at one another all day. Hawke and Varric joined the informal group, and Cassandra occasionally drifted over. 

Once they reached Adamant, things started to happen very quickly. Tents sprang up, arranged in strict grid formation. Crews of engineers assembled and tested siege engines. Soldiers checked the fittings on their armor, sharpened their swords, set up shrines to Andraste and prayed. 

Kit stared up at the high stone walls and felt a cold finger of fear trail down her spine. Redcliffe had been bigger, the walls higher… but they hadn’t attacked the castle, just one man. That had gone badly enough, but they'd all _survived_. 

People would die here. She stood a good chance of being among them. When Loghain asked her to join his ‘team’, she hadn’t understood how risky his plan was. They'd be first through the gates, with no support and no chance of retreat. Knowing what lay ahead, the mere sight of the fortress made her feel ill.

So she didn’t look. She sat down at the back of Cullen’s command tent, where she could listen to him going about his business without getting in the way. His nearness soothed her. 

She occupied herself by sorting through the sand, picking out the grains of quartz and gathering them in her palm. Once she had enough, she traced a rune in the sand to suspend the quartz in midair while she blasted it with a thin, concentrated stream of white fire. 

The quartz melted and coalesced into a sphere of clear glass. A gentle application of cold air cooled and hardened the liquid to a solid, and she had a marble. Kit set the marble aside and repeated the process until she had a dozen to flick about, leaving faint trails through the sand and clacking into one another. 

“Kit?” 

Kit looked up to see Cullen standing over her. She squinted past him, looking at the twilit sky; dinnertime had come and gone. 

Cullen crouched and smoothed a hand down her back. “Are you all right?” 

“Not really,” Kit answered. Then, impulsively, “Do you want to take a walk?” 

His hand held steady at the small of her back. “Are you having second thoughts? Loghain should never have asked you to stand with him; just say the word and I’ll put you somewhere safer—away from the front lines.” 

Kit laughed. “I’m having second thoughts, and third and fourth and fifth thoughts, too. But I don’t want you to interfere. I just want you to… take a walk. With me.” 

“Stay here.” He huffed. “Which you were doing anyway. I’ll be back.” 

He returned to the command tent. Kit collected her marbles and put them in a pocket. A souvenir. Conversation ebbed and flowed on the other side of the canvas, and she listened with half an ear. It took a certain sort of personality to care about details at a time like this. To discuss rations and ill-fitting helmets when so much was on the line... she couldn't have done it. She could hardly think of the day to come, except to be afraid. And the next hour? That scared her too.

She made a bargain with herself. Had probably been working herself up to this moment for days, it came so easily. From now until they broke through the gates of Adamant, she’d give herself permission. She’d throw her good judgment out the window and forget about consequences.

A stupid way to live, but this wasn’t about living. This was about dying. Either one of them might fall in the battle. But even if they both survived, they’d reached the end of the road. The end of friendship, of trust, of hope. He didn’t know it yet, but she did. Soon, very soon, she’d be dead to him.  

Cullen returned and tapped her shoulder. Kit led the way out of camp, keeping Adamant at her back. She’d spotted an odd ruin, crumbling columns rising up from the rolling sand to frame a high narrow platform, and aimed for it. 

Cullen pushed the glowing gem atop her staff away—“Keep it to the other side, I’ll be night-blind if we’re attacked”—and moved lightly at her side, one hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you,” said Kit. 

“So am I,” he replied. “Are you going to tell me why?” 

“No.” 

“Ah.” He paused. “So you intend for us to… walk… and then we will return to camp and carry on as before?” 

Kit shrugged.

He halted her with a light touch to her shoulder. “If that is what you want, then say so.” 

“You know that I am… not optimistic.” Kit licked her lips. “But it’s more than that. I’m afraid.” _That I will throw away everything I have worked for, for you. Betray everyone I love, for you_. “And I thought dying would be easier than facing that fear—”

“Shh, no.” He cupped her cheek. 

“But that was before I saw Adamant,” Kit continued. “I wish I’d seen it the last time we were here. I might have stayed at Skyhold, and I’m sure that we would both be happier that way.” 

“So don’t fight. It’s not too late—”

“ _Cullen_ ,” Kit said sharply. “If we both survive this battle, if we make it back to Skyhold and you still want me, then I will try. I would be _honored_ to try.”

“If?” He laughed softly, delighted. He had no idea. “There is no question.” 

“But I’m afraid,” Kit repeated. _That you will hate me. That I will deserve it_. She felt sick. “So maybe it’s not very romantic, but yeah. I want to walk right over to that ruin and take off all your clothes and make a happy memory because I don’t know what will happen next and I’m feeling selfish.” 

He smeared a tear into her cheek, brows furrowed. “Why are you crying?” 

Kit hissed, grabbed his wrist, yanked it away from her face and pressed his hand to her heart, so he would feel it racing. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not fun to say. I’m frightened. I’m terrified. I’m scared shitless. Now make up your fucking mind—”

“Yes,” he interrupted.

“Good.” Kit knocked his hand away and stalked toward the ruin, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Good grief. Crying while she begged a man to fuck her. Could she _be_ more pathetic? 

The sand crunched as Cullen caught up and resumed his position at her side. She clambered up the steep pile of crumbling stone that substituted for a staircase, muttering under her breath, “I hope some crazy Venatori hasn’t been using this thing for a toilet. Or a sacrificial altar. Or a toilet-altar.” 

Cullen chuckled behind her.

“Your good humor is starting to offend me,” Kit tossed back at him, heaving herself over the last rise. 

He caught hold of her ankle, so that she flopped forward onto her belly, torso and arms on the platform, legs dangling and ass in the air. 

“Hey!” 

Cullen reached up with his free hand and loosened the top buckle of her boot. 

Kit wriggled, but she was stuck now. She needed both arms to keep from sliding back and falling. The only thing she could do with her one free leg was kick him in the face, which didn’t seem warranted. Yet. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

He tugged the remaining three buckles open and pulled the boot from her foot, snatching hold of her ankle when she tried to flail free.

“Not so fast,” he taunted, throwing the boot right over her head to land on the platform, just out of her reach. 

Kit kicked blindly, to no avail. Cullen rolled her cotton stocking down her calf, sent it sailing after the boot, and began tickling her instep. She squeaked and writhed, jerking when he discovered a particularly sensitive spot. 

He quickly found all the sensitive spots. 

She laughed until she was breathless and her stomach hurt. Her _cheeks_ hurt. She hadn’t smiled so much in years, even though the whole experience was excruciating. He paused long enough for her to take a single clear breath, all the way in and out, and then he was beside her, both hands on her waist as he pulled her the rest of the way up onto the platform. 

The thick ruff of his surcoat appeared beneath her head before she noticed that he’d removed it.

“Everything goes,” she demanded, feeling around the edges of his armor. He followed her questing hands with his own, loosening straps and buckles—so _many_ buckles, no wonder he’d been able to get her boot off one handed in the dark—working so fast his armor seemed to fall away by magic. 

She raised herself up on one elbow and set Ginevra’s staff alight, drank in the sight of his naked flesh until she was dizzy with it, _drunk_. She hardly dared to touch, badly wanted to savor, but she could not afford to hesitate. They had one night. She had to be greedy.

So she stroked the curves of his biceps, _giggled_ when he flexed and the muscle bunched and hardened beneath her hand. “Mercy,” she whispered, half mocking but half in earnest. 

He peeled her clothes away while she explored. She ducked her head and raised her hips when indicated, felt the cool night air raise goosebumps on her bare flesh, but the sheer _wonder_ of him filled her up, left little room for anything else. The play of muscles on his back when he moved. The way his stomach tightened into a flat, hard, guttered grid when she scraped her nails across it. The gravity-defying uplift of his ass.

And best of all, the thing that made her mouth water, that she saved for last. His cock. Someday, if she survived long enough, she would carve a copy out of marble, she would keep it for herself, and she would use it whenever she needed a treat. 

He worked every day for his body, but that cock? It was a gift, and she finally understood why he prayed so often. 

“I wonder how often that trick will work,” said Cullen, rolling her onto her back. “There has to be a limit.” 

“Trick?” Kit asked, reaching for his waist. 

He captured one hand, then the other, and held them over her head. 

Kit frowned. 

“Trick,” Cullen repeated, sitting beside her now. He laid his open hand over her sternum, heavy and limp through a full cycle of her breath, and then slowly stroked down, cupping her breast, shaping the curve of her waist and hip. 

“You are—” He blushed, both cheeks and the bridge of his nose turning a rosy pink. “Hypnotized. By the merest glimpse of me, it seems.”

“Yes,” Kit admitted.

His blush deepened. 

“Foolishness.” He bent low and closed his mouth over her nipple, sucking and laving, the hand at her hip holding her firmly in place. “Because now I have you exactly where I want you.” 

Kit narrowed her eyes and stuck a spark of lightning at the tip of his nose. 

“No?” His thumb rubbed back and forth along the delicate skin just inside her hipbone. “Then tell me what you would have of me.” 

“I want to touch you,” said Kit. “I want to _lick_ you. I want to build shrines to every part of your body and compose verses to them. But most of all, Cullen, _most_ of all I want to fuck—” 

He silenced her with his mouth, cradling the back of her head as his tongue tangled hotly with hers. 

“Now?” he asked, raising his head. They were both breathing heavily. 

“Right now,” Kit agreed, bucking against his restraining hand. 

“As you wish.” He let go of her hip and cupped her sex, firm and possessive. “Open.” 

She splayed her legs wide. 

She was dripping wet; his fingers turned slick as they petted and explored. They’d start to wrinkle if he kept it up much longer, but she tried to be patient because she was not, after all, an animal in heat. 

Even if she felt like one. 

“You’re not ready.” He sounded a little hurt.

“ _What?_ ” 

“That’s all right,” he soothed, flicking at her clit. “I’ll warm you up.” 

“I am going to set your hair on fire,” said Kit, stunned. “I am going to roast you alive. You lying _beast_ —”

He worked his fingers inside of her and she gasped. Forgot how she'd planned to finish her sentence. She knew what he was doing but at the same time she didn’t because it was so _good_ ; her lower body seemed to dissolve into pure sensation. Pleasure rolled over her in waves and in between she _ached_. 

Her legs, the last part of her body that she could move freely, began to tremble. Useless. He shifted, suckling at her breasts without ever losing his rhythm, his hold on her wrists steady as a rope tie but gentler.

She cursed him as she came—as the shudders began to fade and the emptiness inside seemed all-consuming—and the feral gleam in his eye as he hovered over her, greedy for her reactions, told her she’d made a mistake. He pushed her from peak to peak until her lips were numb and her tongue too clumsy to form words.

Only then did he fit his hips between her thighs and enter her in one long, slow slide. By then, the relief of it was almost as intense as the fullness, the satisfaction. She ought to have been exhausted. She wasn’t. She felt peaceful and warm and… sweet. She couldn’t stop kissing him, everywhere she could reach; his cheek, his neck, his shoulder and forehead. She cooed nonsense in his ear and babbled praise at him when he came.

His full weight crushed down on her, briefly. She would have liked to carry it forever. 

 

 

 

 


	37. On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight

He tried not to snarl at Kit on the way back, as she withdrew further into herself with every step. She had been easy and joyful until she had her shoes on, stopped touching him after they descended from the platform, and finally stopped speaking entirely. 

But she had never pretended to be an even-tempered woman. Nor had she promised him affection, tenderness, not _anything_ beyond what she’d actually given him: a happy memory. 

So he held his tongue and let her scurry away without a farewell as they neared the encampment. Best that he return alone, anyhow. They’d been gone for hours; he’d find a queue outside his command tent.

Some dozen people, as it turned out, all clutching papers and jittery with nerves. But instead of crowding round, shouting over one another, they parted before the closed flaps of his tent and gestured him silently inside. 

Not good, that. 

Cullen pushed the canvas aside and stepped through. Aside from the closed flaps, everything was just as he’d left it. Papers cluttered his camp desk, the chair askew, lanterns lit against the night. Leliana sat on his bed, hands folded in her lap. 

Leliana, who ought to be in Skyhold right now.

Her shoulders drooped with weariness. Her hair hung limp, unwashed, and her clothing had collected an assortment of wrinkles, stains, and snags. She stared up at him, her clear blue eyes deep with sorrow, while dread leeched the last of the afterglow from his body and left him cold. 

“I am sorry,” she said. Her utter sincerity told him how bad the news would be.

Cullen unbuckled his sword belt, laid the sword across his desk, and dragged his chair into a conversational position. 

He sat down. Braced himself. 

“Skyhold has been taken,” said Leliana. 

“Skyhold?” But the second he asked, he knew. He _knew_.

She narrowed her eyes a bit, nodded. “Yes. Perhaps you saw the pieces, but could not puzzle them together. Neither could I. Varric warned me, weeks ago. ‘Pepper’s up to something,’ he said. ‘Keep an eye on her.’ And I did. But my spies saw nothing…” 

“Kit’s _here_ ,” said Cullen, numbly. 

_…If we make it back to Skyhold and you still want me…_

“To draw our attention away from the conspiracy,” said Leliana. “It worked. I didn’t think her friends would sacrifice her.”

“What do you mean?” 

_…I am afraid…_

He hadn’t asked why, with a siege about to start. And she would have lied if he had; he understood that now. She had never pretended to be honest. Yet she had persuaded him to believe in her honesty, all the same. 

She ought to be afraid. _He_ certainly wasn’t going to save her. Not now. 

“I shall start at the beginning, yes? While you were away, scouting the Western Approach, a mage escaped. One of Kit’s closest friends, a woman by the name of Aileen. Vivienne was furious, demanded that I find Aileen, capture her, and return her to Skyhold. I refused. If she wanted her freedom enough to roam the world at such a time, I thought, let her have it. I felt sorry for her.”

Warnings that had been drilled into him from his earliest days of training sprang automatically to mind. _Don’t let pity stay your hand_ had been one of them. 

 _Don’t fool yourself into believing one of them loves you_ had been another, passed on more informally. Mages were devious and resentful and not to be trusted. He could hardly blame Leliana for her failure when he’d been so blind himself. 

“Aileen traveled to the Storm Coast, where she hired a company of mercenaries,” Leliana continued. “The Bull’s Chargers. They have an excellent reputation; their leader, The Iron Bull, is not only a veteran of Seheron but a Ben-Hassrath spy. He infiltrated Skyhold. I didn’t suspect his presence until it was too late.” 

“I see.” 

“They struck…” Leliana passed a hand over her face. “A week ago? The days are starting to blur together. I haven’t slept since I escaped.” 

“ _Escaped_ ,” Cullen repeated flatly, rage starting to bubble up through the initial, numbing shock. He’d left six templars and a dozen infantry at Skyhold; he’d been treating the mages like allies, like part of the Inquisition. 

And those six—he knew their names. One of them, Ser Palomine, had come with him from Kirkwall. Were they dead, now? Because he’d been deluded? 

He’d thought Kit had been chosen by the Maker, but she was just a viper, curling close to strike. 

“Yes. It all happened very quickly; between breakfast and lunch. We didn’t have time to put up a fight. Merchants and tradesmen were allowed to leave. But the soldiers, the Templars, Mother Giselle, _Josephine…_ they have all been taken as hostages. The dungeon is full.” 

Cullen’s hands curled into fists. “I suppose we’ll receive a list of demands.” 

“They have what they want,” said Leliana. “A mage stronghold. The hostages are meant to prevent retaliation… which would be difficult, in any case. They did well. It was a good plan.” 

“And us?” Cullen asked. “Where does this leave the Inquisition?”

Leliana's eyes went out of focus and she spoke in a detached, lilting singsong. “Ever since Haven, I’ve been thinking about serving the Maker with blood on my hands. About losing my faith, so others may keep theirs. I thought we had seen a vision together, Cullen. You shamed me, when we spoke on our way out of Haven.”

“Leliana, don’t—” Cullen’s voice cracked. “Please.” 

“I decided to believe,” Leliana continued implacably. “That the Maker had sent Kit to us. That, whether she knew it or not, she did His work.” 

“And we were _both_ wrong—”

“I still believe it,” Leliana cut in, a hint of steel to her tone. “But now I believe that she is the instrument of His wrath. ‘Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.’ Who attended the Conclave? The Divine, the Grand Clerics, Holy Mothers, knights and pilgrims. He let them all die. What else are we supposed to read in that lake of blood? He _condemns_ us. And to prove it, he spared one person. Just _one_. A woman who hates the Chantry to the very core of her being.” 

“You mustn’t think these things, Leliana.” Cullen picked up one of her soft, pale hands, squeezed hard. “This is despair, not truth. Fight it.” 

“Perhaps.” Leliana let out a long, shuddering breath. “But you asked me where we stand, and you should know what I am thinking. Because I do see a way out of this.”

Cullen’s brows pinched. “Go on.”

“Kit.” 

“Do what you want with her,” said Cullen quickly. “I won’t object.” 

“But that’s what she expects. What they’ve prepared for.” Leliana flicked a quick, knowing glance at his throat, his hairline. “I am sorry, Cullen. This must be very—”

“It is nothing,” he interrupted, dropping his hands and shoving his chair a few inches back. “What does she”—no, _she_ didn’t matter anymore—“what have _they_ prepared for?” 

“I was never captured,” said Leliana. “I had rope stowed on the roof of the rookery in an oilcloth sack with a few other supplies. I had enough warning to make use of it. I descended from the tower, but instead of escaping immediately, I infiltrated the fortress to spy on the mages. They no longer had any reason to guard their secrets.” 

“And?” 

“They want to trade hostages,” said Leliana. “They hope that we will return Kit in exchange for Josephine and Mother Giselle. But they are prepared for other outcomes. For torture and execution. As I understand it, Kit forbade her companions from making any concession to spare her. They are to proceed as though she is already dead.” 

“Which she may well be, this time tomorrow.” He was suddenly, viciously glad that she’d placed herself in the front lines. 

“Pray that she survives, Cullen. She’s our only hope.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sorry I ever—I was wrong. _You_ were right.”

“You think I was right? Then consider the possibility I may be right again.” Leliana took a deep breath. “We must make her our Inquisitor.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“We have tied our fate to hers for too long,” Leliana said. “She stepped out of the Fade at the Temple. She closed the Breach, with the mages at her back—do you remember that? She knew what she was doing, even then. She ran out to meet the dragon, she came back from the dead. She found Skyhold. And _everyone knows it_.”

Cullen jumped to his feet and began pacing. The mere thought of bending the knee to Kit made him want to punch someone. _Any_ one, any _thing_. To batter his fists into raw meat and roar his defiance. 

How had they let this happen? 

“If she dies, the world will see it as a tragedy,” said Leliana. “If she dies and her compatriots keep Skyhold, we will be a laughingstock. All our gains lost, in an instant. If she survives and we release her, we _fail_.” 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

“There must be an alternative,” Cullen insisted. “Have you spoken to Cassandra? She might have an idea.” 

“Cassandra won’t take this well,” said Leliana. “I thought you might… perhaps if I’d gotten here a little earlier.”

“One more sly comment, Leliana—” 

He couldn’t finish the sentence, and she didn’t step in to fill the silence. 

“Is it so terrible, that she wanted you that way?” 

Yes. He would—he would have _nightmares_ about it. A guise of love wrapped around an empty heart, no different than a demon. 

Only this time, he’d succumbed to temptation. He had _embraced_ her, he had _believed_ her. The things she had _said_. Maker forgive him, but every word was burned on his soul. 

“What would you have had her do? Spell it all out for you? Warn you away?” 

Cullen froze. “She did.” 

Leliana blinked. “She did?” 

What had she said? _It will end badly_. She would know. 

“And you didn’t tell me?” 

“I heard… something different than what she meant. As she intended.” 

“She has spent her life learning to hide lies inside truths, I imagine. It’s a tactic I know well.” Leliana shrugged. “She is the instrument the Maker has given us. We must keep her. By whatever means necessary.” 

“As a puppet?” Cullen asked, slightly mollified. He might almost enjoy that. 

“Perhaps, though that’s not what I had in mind,” said Leliana. “The mages will follow her, Cullen. If we want to win Skyhold back, we’ll have to do the same.”  

He raked a hand through his hair. “I can’t—I’ll resign, Leliana.”

“And go where?” Leliana paused for a beat, her eyebrows raised. “You, too, have tied your fate to the Inquisition.”

It was true. He’d realized that from the start—he’d been chosen because he was the most desperate, not because he was the best. And now the rebel mages had usurped Skyhold, the Inquisition, and with it—his livelihood and his honor. His future.

He had never been so deeply, so thoroughly betrayed in his life. Kit thought she could make a puppet of him? He would prove her wrong. He would make her pay.

 


	38. she'd brewed the potion, she'd drink it

Kit tossed and turned in her bedroll for a few hours before giving up on sleep and laying out her new battle-dress. Thin cotton trousers, patched together using the regulation beige cloth from which all the rank-and-file’s uniforms were made, knee-high silk stockings and supple ankle boots with silverite-reinforced toes. A short tunic of thin linen, plain white and cheap; she’d purchased the cloth. 

Most of her effort had gone into the coat, and she had to admit it was ugly. It looked like it had been made from scraps, which it had. A dozen different colors of royale sea silk, fitted together as pleasingly as she could manage. She’d reinforced the light silk with a silverite mesh and the result was strong, flexible, and lightweight. 

Kit dressed, gave herself a critical once-over, and shrugged. It was a siege, not a soiree.

She stepped out of the tent into an eerie gray gloom. A dense layer of clouds had rolled in during the night, looming low in the sky and blotting out the sun. It didn’t feel like morning at all; it felt like limbo. 

Dorian stood by the fire, spooning porridge into his mouth with grim determination. He wore the armor she’d made for him—though since he’d bought the materials and spared no expense, the results were significantly more attractive. Quilted red silk, leather straps, gold studs. 

“Someone’s looking handsome,” Kit teased. 

“Such is my curse.” Dorian turned a wan smile on her, then paused with his spoon in the air. “My dear girl, have you come to demonstrate for us why the Orlesians wear masks? I believe I could narrate your entire evening by the expression on your face right now.” 

Kit rubbed at her cheeks. Was she making a face? What kind of face? She'd better not look _happy_. That would make no sense at all.

“Please don’t,” said Loghain, arriving from the direction of the mess tent with a bowl of porridge.

“Quite right, Warden.” Dorian nodded sagely. “I’d rather hear it from her, myself. Do you accept bribes, Kit?” 

“Careful, Dorian,” cautioned Solas, emerging from their shared tent. “I can tell you from experience that she strikes a hard bargain.” 

“ _Intriguing_ ,” said Dorian. 

“Enough banter out of you lot. That’s _my_ job,” announced Hawke, following close behind Loghain. She carried a bowl of porridge in each hand; Varric, at her side, had another two. Kit accepted one of the extras, Solas the other. “Someone needs to fight while I’m cracking jokes.” 

“You heard the woman.” Varric sat cross-legged before the fire. “Any and all competition for the role of jester will be swiftly shut down. Unless it’s from me.” 

“Well, that’s fine,” said Hawke. “Your aim is rotten anyhow.”

Varric squinted at Hawke. “Are you insulting Bianca?” 

“She is insulting _you_ , Varric,” supplied Cassandra, clean and polished and gleaming, with her sword at her waist and shield slung over her back. “Though it’s just like you to let Bianca take the blame.” 

Varric looked about imploringly. “Aren’t you people supposed to have my back? I’ve got a lot of heat on me here.” 

“I’d be delighted to help, Varric, but I’ve been told that I have no sense of humor.” Solas paused, then added, “By you, in fact.” 

“I hate you all,” Varric muttered, bending over his porridge. 

“I came to tell you to make ready,” said Cassandra. “The soldiers are already moving into formation.”

A few nods greeted this announcement; spoons scooped into the bland porridge with renewed fervor. A meal was a meal, and they’d be working up an appetite. 

“Warden Loghain, my team and I will attempt to take the battlements,” said Cassandra. “If we succeed, we will join you on the way to Clarel. If not, you’ll be on your own.” 

“Understood, Seeker.” 

Kit collected the bowls and returned them to the mess tent. By the time she returned, Cassandra, Dorian, and Solas had gone. Varric, Hawke, and Loghain remained before the remains of the fire, dirt kicked over the coals. 

“They’re rolling the trebuchets into position,” said Loghain. “Come.” 

Kit saw more death in the first five minutes of the siege than all the rest of her life combined. The trebuchets battered the ancient stone walls of the fortress while Grey Wardens on the battlements sent out volleys of arrows and demons attacked the soldiers who climbed the grappling ladders. 

It took a whole brace of soldiers, shields raised protectively overhead, to roll the battering ram into place. The Wardens focused their fire, picking off one after the other, until bodies ringed the frame. New soldiers filled positions left open by the fallen, keeping the heavy log pounding at the fortress doors until they splintered and caved in.

Kit caught her first sight of Cullen as he strode over, trailed as ever by a string of runners and adjutants. He seemed unfazed by the noise, the chaos, the ominous grey gloom of the sunless sky. 

He faltered, briefly, when he saw her. His expression went from fierce to fiercer; Kit backed away from it, firming her grip on her staff, before she understood it consciously. 

He’d had news from Skyhold. 

Her heart dropped straight to her stomach, but she stood her ground. She’d brewed the potion; she’d drink it. 

He looked at her like… oh, she didn’t need to stretch for a metaphor. He looked at her like Templars always looked at mages. As though she weren’t quite human, but some lower class of life. As though she couldn’t hurt him, because she’d only lived up to his expectations. His low, low expectations. 

But his contempt surely hurt _her_. It took her breath away. How could he look at her like that when… when she loved him?

She breathed out through her teeth, let the realization settle. She was in love with Cullen Rutherford. And she’d figured it out at the very same moment that he realized he hated her. 

One of life’s little ironies. 

Cullen’s expression blanked. He resumed his advance, but he kept his attention fixed on Loghain. 

“You have your way in, Warden. Best make use of it.” Cullen flicked a glance at Kit and then quickly away. “You’re on your own from here on out.” 

He continued on down the line before anyone could comment. Loghain turned on Kit, crowding in to make his height as intimidating as possible, eyes narrowed down to angry slits. 

“I see I should have had a few words with you about _timing_ ,” he snarled. 

“Oh, stuff it,” Kit shot back. She was in too much pain to feel any more, so good luck to Warden Loghain and his famous icy gaze. It felt positively _balmy_ to her right now. “Barrier spell in three… two… one…” 

She cast over the group and they sprinted for the fortress gates, moving fast enough to dodge most of the projectiles that rained down around them. Kit’s barrier took care of the rest.

Beyond the smashed gates lay a small courtyard. Wardens manned the walls, bows and staves in hand. More Wardens streamed in through doors on all sides. Wardens who, if they couldn’t hold the gates, clearly meant to turn the cramped square right beyond them into a killing floor. 

What was she _doing_ here? How many mistakes had she made to land herself in this miserable, no-win predicament? In fact, why count? _Everything_ that had led her here was a mistake. Pretty much by definition.

She’d let her own life devolve into a nightmare. Nothing but corpses and battles and _fucking heartbreak_. 

Kit screamed. Really screamed, right from her gut, shredding her throat with the force of it. Absolutely everyone in the courtyard stopped to look, friend and foe alike, unnerved by the crazy woman with the crazy yell. 

Kit took a deep breath and threw a bolt of lightning that hit one Warden, leapt to two others, and felled all three. Go figure, but all of a sudden she was _really_ in the mood to storm a fortress. 

They cleared the courtyard quickly—at any previous moment in her life, Kit would have been horrified by the sheer savagery of her companions. Loghain cut down anyone who moved within arm’s reach. Hawke winked in and out of view, stabbing people in the back. Varric’s crossbow bolts sprouted from eyes and necks. They weren’t fighting the Wardens so much as _butchering_ them. 

Today, however? Kit thought she could out-savage them. She was certainly game to try. They followed Loghain into a long, rectangular side court. Kit sheeted the ground with ice, melted the ice with fire, and then waited for a wave of Wardens to swarm the side court. She electrocuted the whole company while they crossed the puddle. Ten human beings, dead in an instant. 

“Are you okay, Pepper?” Varric called out. 

“Picked a bad time for a heart to heart, Varric.” Kit threw a blue-white fireball at an archer firing from the shelter of a small alcove. The skin melted off his bones. It was disgusting. “But the answer is no and also fuck everyone.” Kit threw another fireball, this time at a despair demon. _Satisfying_. “And their little dogs, too.” 

The hours Loghain had spent pouring over Adamant’s floor plans paid off. He guided them confidently through winding corridors and up stairways that seemed to lead nowhere but inevitably brought them face to face with clusters of enraged demons. Kit sent massive fists of Fade energy crashing into close-ranked attackers, throwing them out of formation. And then, while Loghain and Hawke waded into the chaos, Kit picked out archers and mages and she _burned them alive_. 

By the time they reached the battlements, her hair floated around her, lifted by waves of raw magic. Ginevra’s staff sizzled in her hand; the amber gem at the crown seared her eyes when she looked at it. 

“What have we here?” Dorian called out, finishing off a pride demon. “You’ve certainly improved your technique since Redcliffe, Kit. But… are you quite all right?” 

“Bad question,” said Varric. “Let’s all pretend you didn’t ask.” 

“Is she going to be a problem?” Loghain asked.

Solas opened his mouth, but Kit cut in before the elf could answer. “Only if you keep talking about me like I’m not here.” 

Loghain scowled at her. 

“I will silence her if it becomes necessary,” said Cassandra, converging on their group. “The Wardens are abandoning whole sections of the fortress. They’re retreating to the inner bailey, where Cullen’s trebuchets can’t reach the walls.”

“Then that’s where we’ll find Clarel,” said Loghain. “And that’s where I must go. Who’s with me?” 

Kit paused on the battlements for a moment, looking down on the scene below. Inquisition soldiers swarmed the grappling ladders, waiting for their chance to climb, while others streamed through the front gates. Most of the trebuchets were deserted; at this point, they’d only hit their own men. Vivienne’s mages held the rear now, casting barriers and providing covering fire. 

She fancied she could even see Cullen pacing about, or at least the knot of people around him. 

Who had put her in charge of the rebel mages? And _why_? She was no politician. A wiser person would probably have worked with Cullen. He wanted real change. The way he’d responded to her ideas about the Templar Order proved that well enough.

Or maybe she was only entertaining the idea because it was too late. It was a nice fantasy, where the mage and the Templar fell in love and found a way to live happily ever after. If the rebellion put down roots, grew strong, it might be reality one day. For someone else, in a future she probably wouldn’t live to see.

Until then… there was a place for hard-hearted bitches who could spit on their own feelings and kick good men in the teeth. How fortunate that she’d grown up in a world that had need of her. 

She hurried to catch up her companions, though the scene inside the inner bailey… did not look good. They were outnumbered by at least five to one. Perhaps more alarmingly, all the Wardens looked on as Clarel, an athletic middle-aged woman with close-cropped grey hair, slit the throat of a man who appeared to be a friend. 

“Clarel!” Loghain shouted. “If you complete that ritual, you’re doing exactly what Erimond wants!” 

“What, fighting the blight?” Erimond himself stepped forward, still pompous and enamored of his own voice. He had no idea how sleazy he was, at all. “Keeping the world safe from darkspawn? Who wouldn’t want that? And, yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice, hate me for that if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty!”

“We make the sacrifices no one else will!” Clarel added. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them.” 

“He will take your mind, Clarel,” Loghain warned. “He will make you serve his real master: Corypheus!” 

“Corypheus?” Clarel wavered. “But he’s dead.”

Erimond oozed closer to the Warden-Commander. “These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarel.” 

For a moment, Kit was sure Clarel would knock Erimond’s stupid teeth out of his stupid head, but then she shouted, “Bring it through!” and a ring of mages began to channel the power of the sacrifice into an undulating sheet of green Fade energy.

“Please!” Hawke cried. “I have seen my share of blood magic. It is never worth the cost!” 

Clarel hesitated again. She was changing her mind—Kit could see it, _anyone_ could see it—but not fast enough. The ritual had advanced too far. The mages had already committed too much of their own energy into the spell. Tainted magic thickened the air.

“Clarel, we have come so far!” Erimond pleaded, fatuous to the end. “You’re the only one that can do this!” 

“Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges,” said Clarel, “to avoid more bloodshed.” 

Kit groaned. Not enough! She gathered herself, readied a spell. Clarel might not have realized it yet, but they’d passed the point of no return. Blood would spill, and soon.

“ _Perhaps_ I shall bring in a more reliable ally!” Erimond crowed, and thunked his staff hard against the ground.

A dragon rose up from the Abyssal Rift. It roared, a thin and broken sound, and circled the fortress on tattered wings. The animal was not well, though Kit did not doubt it had strength enough to kill everyone at Adamant. 

With a clue _that_ big flying circles overhead, even Warden-Commander Clarel could follow the thread. She shot a bolt of lightning at Erimond as he approached the sacrificial bier, sending him sprawling.  

“Help the Inquisition!” Clarel called out. 

Chaos broke out in the courtyard. The mages who tried to cut themselves loose from the ritual collapsed, felled by the magical backlash. Those already enslaved to Corypheus set their demons loose to wreak havoc.

Erimond tried to flee. With the memory of her burned hand still fresh, Kit set out after him. She was surprised to see Clarel ahead of her, less surprised when her companions fell in behind: Loghain, Hawke, Varric, Solas and Dorian all running flat-out. 

They chased Erimond around the perimeter of the castle and along a colonnade built right into the sheer face of the Abyssal Rift. The dragon paced them, breathing gouts of fire that, while badly aimed, splashed against the rock and singed them all. 

Erimond headed up to a high platform that extended out over the Rift itself. A landing pad for griffons, from the days when Grey Wardens rode them into battle. With nowhere left to run, Erimond finally turned to fight… only to be knocked over by a bolt of lightning from Clarel. 

“You destroyed the Grey Wardens!” Clarel shouted. 

“You did that yourself, you stupid bitch!” Erimond returned. Less oily now, more garden variety asshole. “All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes and you couldn’t wait to get your hands bloody!”

Clarel struck him with lightning again, and then again. Erimond curled up into a fetal position. 

“You could have served a new god!” Erimond croaked. 

“I will never serve the Blight!” Clarel readied a killing blow, but the dragon found them before she could strike. It snatched her up in its jaws, flapping its wings to gain altitude and then spitting her out from mid-air. The Warden-Commander skidded across the platform while the dragon circled round to start another pass. 

Astonishingly, Clarel lived. She rolled onto her side and took up her staff. “In war, victory,” she recited, as lightning gathered at the tip of her staff. “In peace, vigilance.” She aimed and let fly. “In death, sacrifice.” 

Her lightning paralyzed the dragon’s wing and sent the creature into a tailspin. It crashed into the landing platform, making a massive crater in the stonework. The whole structure shuddered and began to give way, more and more stones crumbling around the thrashing dragon. 

“Run!” Kit screamed, aiming for the safety of the covered colonnade, but she wasn’t fast enough. The dragon fell and the rest of the platform meant to follow it, crumbling faster than she could run. 

The ground fell out from under her feet and the Abyssal Rift yawned open beneath her, an endless drop to her death. 

Kit almost laughed. Of course it would end like this. She’d jumped off a cliff. The biggest one she could find. It was a perfect metaphor for her life.  

But the wild cries all around her told her that she was not alone. Whatever she thought of her companions, friend or foe, they didn’t deserve this. Besides, with such a long fall her life wouldn’t just flash in front of her eyes—she’d have to relive the whole damn thing. Twice. And she really wasn’t in the mood. 

Her Marked hand shot out. She ripped a hole in the fabric of reality, tore it wide. And tumbled through.


	39. the truth hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being pretty beastly to write. I'm still not entirely happy but I've reached the point of diminishing returns, in terms of putting time in and seeing the text improve. 
> 
> But this note is REALLY to tell you that one of the things I agonized about for way, way too long was formatting. The chapter involves flashbacks and I don't like the way I've set them off. I also think I ended up with some POV issues (Are we seeing them as Kit sees them or as an omniscient other, like a camera would?). Anyway, the end result is both slightly muddled & aesthetically unappealing. But at least it should be clear which parts are flashbacks and which aren't.

The adrenaline that had carried Kit through Adamant drained away and left a vacuum in its wake, a shivery sort of dread. As soon as she’d found some equilibrium she’d remember that slaughterhouse as it had been, see _herself_ as _she’d_ been, without the protective cushion of rage. 

If she ever found her equilibrium. The idea seemed absurd in the topsy-turvy landscape where she’d landed. 

“What happened?” Loghain asked. He stood nearby, clearly disoriented but otherwise no worse for wear. 

That shouldn’t be possible. Considering how far they’d fallen, they could have landed on clouds made of unicorn breath and still broken bones. So… they’d fallen out of the possible. Into the impossible.

Into the Fade. 

She tried to think of a joke, but none came to mind. They’d escaped certain death but somehow their situation had still gotten worse. Ha ha. 

“If this is the afterlife, the chantry owes me an apology,” quipped Hawke. “This looks nothing like the Maker’s bosom.”

“Can I just say I’m having the worst day of my life?” Kit whined. A joke really would have been better, but not everyone could be the Champion. “I have had a lot of really bad days. I mean, a significantly above average quantity of bad days. And this is still the worst.” 

“Count yourself lucky, Sweetcheeks.” Hawke brushed herself off and drew her daggers. She was already transitioning from bewildered to alert. “This wouldn’t even be top five for me.” 

“Really?” Kit asked. “What about top ten?” 

“Top ten, maybe. Depends on what happens next.” 

“Is this a competition?” Loghain asked. “If so, the both of you might as well give up.” 

“You can’t play,” said Kit. “That would be like, I don’t know, having a swimming competition with a fish.”

Loghain looked at her flatly. “Indeed.” 

“How about, instead of sitting around shooting the shit, we look for a way out of here?” said Varric. “Do we even know where _here_ is?” 

“Kit opened a rift to the Fade. We came through, and survived,” said Solas. “I never thought I would find myself here, physically. Look, there. The Black City, almost close enough to touch.”

Kit shuddered.

“Unfortunately,” said Dorian, “since we’re the first people to enter the Fade physically in more than a thousand years, there’s no map with the exits handily marked.” 

“In the real world the rift producing the demons was nearby. In the main hall,” said Loghain. “Can we return to the world through that?”

“That is likely our best option,” said Solas. “We can even see the rift from here. Not an impossible distance.” 

“Don’t jinx us,” said Hawke. “Every time I make a prediction like that, I end up regretting it.” 

“She means that literally,” Varric chimed in. "Every... single... blighted... time."

They trekked through an eerie dreamscape. Some denizen of the Fade made its home here, shaped the world to its liking. Tableaux dotted the landscape like flower beds or potted plants. Each tableau seemed like a thin slice of some familiar reality, desks and beds and architectural elements, too, columns and pediments. But distorted and faded, like old memories. 

Kit held her staff at the ready, expecting a fight, but the first creature they encountered wore a familiar face. 

Glynnis.

Younger than she'd been when she died, which was a punch to the gut all by itself. All the bad years—perhaps not bad for Glynnis so much as Kit, who’d hated being estranged—had been stripped away. Here stood the woman who’d always had a pot of tea steaming in her office and offered a cup to every single person who entered. Who taught her classes with her pupils gathered round in a circle and insisted the library be furnished with cushioned armchairs. 

She had been beautiful, too. In the way that strong but gentle people so often are: soft, with liquid eyes and a magical smile. 

“Impossible,” Kit breathed.

“Where are your manners, Kit?” Glynnis chided. “Won’t you introduce me?” 

“Hey, everyone,” said Kit. “This is a demon pretending to be Glynnis, the First Enchanter of Ostwick. She died at the Conclave. We hadn’t been getting along but I really loved her so could someone else kill it?” 

“Rash as ever.” Glynnis clucked. “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” 

“To insult me?” Kit asked. 

“No, dearest. To help you.”  

“Come on, guys,” Kit called, her throat tight. “I’m going to start crying if she keeps this up and I will force whoever’s most uncomfortable with tears to comfort me.”

“So… Loghain,” said Dorian. 

Loghain scowled. “I was married, you know. _And_ I raised a daughter.”

“Cool it, Gramps. Sparkler was deflecting,” said Varric. “Sparkler, you have a problem with crying? Wanna tell Papa Varric about it?” 

Solas rolled his eyes and huffed out an impatient breath. “Of all the… Can we focus? This spirit appears to know you, Kit. If she’s taken on the form of a human you loved, it may be her way of declaring friendly intentions.” 

No, not friendly. Appearing with that face—it was cruel, really. The only kind of cruelty Glynnis had ever been capable of. She’d hold up a mirror when Kit least wanted to see herself clearly. 

“Why don’t we ask her?” Varric raised his voice. “Hello, Spirit. Care to explain how you think you can help us?” 

“You have entered the lair of a demon who serves Corypheus,” began Glynnis. 

“A powerful one, too.” Solas looked about. “Some variety of fear, I would guess?” 

“A demon of nightmares,” confirmed Glynnis. “It feeds upon memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such great mistakes? Its work.”

“Perhaps I owe this nightmare a visit,” growled Loghain.

“You will have your chance, brave Warden,” promised the spirit. 

Which seemed… odd. Foreboding. The first wrong note. 

“How does Corypheus _control_ such a powerful demon?” Dorian wondered. 

“It serves willingly, for Corypheus has brought much terror to your world,” answered Glynnis. “He was one of the magisters who unleashed the first Blight upon the world, was he not? Every child’s cry as the archdemon circles, every dwarf’s whimper in the Deep Roads… the nightmare has fed well.”

“Can you help us get out of the Fade?” Solas asked. 

“I can,” said Glynnis. “But that is not why I found you. All of you have lost memories to the nightmare—some of them very important. Kit’s memories of entering the Fade in Haven are here. You must reclaim them before you leave.” 

Kit grit her teeth and refused to acknowledge the demon, but Solas cast a barrier over her and pushed her toward the floating wisps of memory.

“If it’s a trick, we will soon know. Give the spirit a chance to prove itself.” 

The wisp burst and formed a sort of moving picture. Kit saw herself walking with one of the Orlesian mages she’d met at the Conclave, Marcel, down a spacious corridor carved out of stone. It had to be one of the tunnels beneath the Temple of Sacred Ashes, though the scene itself was unfamiliar. 

> _“Look, I really hope Redcliffe works out, but I wouldn’t count on it,” Kit said. “King Alistair promised the Hero of Ferelden that he’d disband the Ferelden Circle ten years ago, and we all know_ that _never happened.”_
> 
> _“But the Anderfels?” protested Marcel. “The whole_ country _is Blighted. And you know what the Wardens will want in exchange for sanctuary.”_
> 
> _“Yeah, I know,” Kit agreed. “But at least they’re willing to talk. And some of the mages will be glad to volunteer.”_
> 
> _“I’ve heard rumors about the Joining,” returned Marcel. “They’ll follow you to a new life and you’ll send them to their deaths. Doesn’t that bother you? It ought to.”_
> 
> _“So I’ll volunteer,” snapped Kit. “Would that make you feel better? We need options. They’re not all going to be great.”_
> 
> _They reached a heavy door reinforced with iron. Marge knocked, but no one answered._
> 
> _“Who assigned the Grey Wardens to quarters so far under the Temple, anyhow?” Marcel asked. “Have they fallen out of favor while I wasn’t looking?”_
> 
> _“Let’s hope so. It’ll make them more likely to befriend us.” Kit sighed and gave the door a shove. It turned smoothly on its hinges._
> 
> _Inside, Divine Justinia hung suspended by a ropes of crackling red magic. A half dozen Grey Warden mages circled her, working together to keep the spell going._
> 
> _“Now is the hour of our victory,” intoned a resonant, echoing voice._
> 
> _“Why are you doing this? You of all people?” cried the Divine._
> 
> _“Keep the sacrifice still,” commanded the voice, as the speaker stepped into view. He had a spindly, unnaturally elongated body and held a metal orb in his hand, which sparked with green Fade energy._

 “That’s Corypheus,” said Kit. “If you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet.” 

> _“Someone help me!” Justinia wailed, as the Fade energy surrounded her._
> 
> _Kit stood frozen in the doorway, gawking, while Marcel shouted, “What’s going on here?” and rushed into the room._
> 
> _Corypheus said, “Keep him away!” and of the Warden mages felled Marcel with a spear of ice._
> 
> _Justinia took advantage of Corypheus’s distraction to smack the orb from his hand. It hit the ground, bounced, and rolled right to Kit._
> 
> _Kit picked it up and went rigid, gripped by the spell. Corypheus roared wildly and threw himself at her._  

 The scene dissolved before Corypheus reached her. 

“So Andraste _didn’t_ bestow her mark upon you,” said Loghain. “It came from the orb that Corypheus used in his ritual.”

“Um… Did anyone here actually think it was Andraste?” Kit asked. She looked around—bland looks and headshakes from everyone but Cassandra, who seemed horrified. “Sorry, Cassandra. Turns out I’m not holy.” Kit snickered. “Hard to believe, I know.” 

“Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City,” explained Glynnis. “Not for the Old Gods, but for himself. When you disrupted his plan, the Orb bestowed the Anchor on you instead.” 

“If he wants to live in the Fade, why bother taking over the world?” Hawke wondered. 

“Without the Veil, the world and the Fade are one,” said Solas. “Arlathan could not have existed in a world so starved of magic as ours is today.” 

“You cannot escape the lair of the nightmare until you regain all that it took from you,” said Glynnis. “You have recovered some of yourself, but now it knows you are here. You must make haste. I will prepare the way ahead.” 

“Is there a problem, Hawke?” Loghain asked. 

“I wondered if you might be concerned about the Grey Wardens holding the Divine in that vision. Their actions led to her death.” 

“Corypheus had clearly taken the Wardens’ minds,” said Loghain. “You yourself have seen him do this. In any case, we can deal with that after we escape.”

“Oh, I intend to.” 

They progressed to the next batch of memories. These revealed a scene whose sunless, green-tinted sky so resembled the one above that it had to be the Fade. Spiders climbed an impossibly steep ziggurat, surging toward the top. 

“This is the Breach in Haven,” said Kit. “This is how we… how _I_ escaped.” 

> _Kit struggled to reach the top of the Ziggurat. Divine Justinia, only steps away from the portal, paused to help. Together, they ran toward the green rift._
> 
> _But the spider demons caught the Divine. She screamed, and Kit swerved back, stretched out her arms, tried to yank the old woman away from those grasping, spindly legs. Just when it seemed she would succeed, the Divine shouted for Kit to leave and… let go. Kit reeled back, toward the rift, while the spider-demons swarmed the Divine._

Kit leapt through the portal and the vision dissolved. 

Kit, in the present, licked suddenly dry lips. “So it was the Divine behind me in the Fade… and she died saving my life.”

“From _Grey Wardens_ ,” said Hawke. “Do we get to talk about that yet?” 

“No,” said Cassandra. “We will seek answers, Hawke. But survival comes first.” 

They continued on through the strange landscape, but one of the passing tableaux brought Kit to a sudden standstill. 

“What do you see there?” she asked, pointing. 

“It looks like a bedroom in a noble estate back in Kirkwall,” said Hawke. “Perhaps a child’s room.”

“I know all about you, Katherine Trevelyan,” boomed a disembodied voice. “You’ve had so much to forget over the years.”

Suddenly a transparent figure, like the ones that sprang from the wisps, appeared on the child’s bed. A young girl in a pink frilly dress, maybe seven or eight, with jewels glittering in her elaborately styled, coal-black hair. 

“Is that you, Kit?” Cassandra asked. 

Kit nodded. 

“Weren’t you just _adorable_?” Dorian cooed. 

> _The child folded her arms over her chest and banged her satin-slippered heels against the bed. “I don’t want an apple,” she shouted. “I want chocolate.”_

Kit frowned. “I hate chocolate.” 

> _A woman materialized next to the child. She had a kind face, a graceful bearing, and the same dark eyes as the girl. She held a ripe, red apple in one hand._

“Your mother?” Cassandra asked.

Kit nodded.

“She’s very beautiful,” said Dorian. 

> _“Chocolate is for dessert,” said the woman, offering the apple to her child. “If you’re hungry, you may have an apple.”_
> 
> _“I don’t want an apple!”_
> 
> _“Then perhaps you’re not really hungry.”_
> 
> _“I said I want CHOCOLATE!” screamed the girl. She banged her little fists on the mattress and the apple caught on fire._
> 
> _The mother dropped the apple, though not before her hands were red and blistered. The flames leapt from the fallen apple to to her skirt and climbed quickly. She tried to quench the flames by rolling on the floor, while the girl began to scream in terror._

“Charming kid,” said Varric. 

“I don’t—” Kit swallowed. She’d forgotten her first casting. She must have buried it so deep… no wonder the smell of chocolate made her ill. “My mom is fine. She’s never said a word…”

“Don’t let the memory torment you,” said Loghain. “The nightmare wouldn’t show it to you if it didn’t see some benefit in it.”  

But the next chamber contained another familiar scene. A lecture hall from the College of Magi filled the center of the room. They all recognized the woman who stood within the tableau: Vivienne, aged about twenty. Still fashionable and proud, though not so expensively dressed.   

> _“Battlemages prefer opaque walls of ice, blocking the enemy’s line of sight in addition to creating a barrier to attack,” Vivienne lectured, pacing back and forth in front of a lectern. The sound of rusting papers and muffled coughs echoed through the chamber, though the audience itself remained invisible. “But this opaque ice limits us as well as the enemy. So. What are the steps to making ice that is clear as glass?”_
> 
> _She cast a weak spell that created a thin layer of clear, unclouded ice. Then another, and another, and another, until she’d built up a wall. A very short wall… but perfect, without a cloud to mar its transparency._
> 
> _Vivienne circled her creation, smiling. “The art, of course, is to chain the spells together very quickly. Each one is very weak, so mana is no barrier. Only skill.”_
> 
> _She cast again, and this time the ice wall flowed up from the ground, the layers piling one atop the other faster than the eye could see._
> 
> _A twelve or thirteen year old Kit stormed the stage. Though she wore plain apprentice robes, she had a sleek, pampered look and wore her coal-black hair in an elaborate style, studded with gems._
> 
> _“There’s a much simpler way, Enchanter Vivienne,” pre-teen Kit announced, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. They immediately fell back down. “A wall like this took how many spells? I stopped counting after two dozen. It’s really much easier to fix the problem at the source. The air bubbles are injected into the ice by sloppy casting. If you control for air churn as you conjure, the ice will manifest clear.”_
> 
> _Young Kit twirled her staff with more enthusiasm than finesse, but her spell created an ice wall not only taller and thicker than Vivienne’s, but just as sparkling clear._
> 
> _“Thank you, Apprentice Katherine.” Vivienne’s tone was frostier than either of the ice sculptures. “Unfortunately, that level of control is beyond the reach of many mages, who may find my layering method more accessible.”_
> 
> _“Sure. If they want to take twenty minutes to build an ice wall,” retorted Kit. “But chain casting at the speed you demonstrated is much harder than doing the spell once and being careful about it.”_
> 
> _A grey-haired enchanter interrupted, sending Kit back into the lecture hall_ —the transparent figure simply dissolved— _and congratulating Vivienne on her demonstration._
> 
> _A feeble smattering of applause followed. Vivienne, a ruddy glow on her dark cheeks, bowed stiffly._

 “So… that’s why Vivienne hates you so much?” Dorian asked. 

“I can’t say I blame her,” said Hawke. “You just… hijacked her presentation? And humiliated her?”

“Come on, lots of us were brats at that age,” said Varric. 

“Not like _that_ ,” said Hawke.  

Kit remembered working out the clear ice. Glynnis started the youngest mages on ice sculptures, partly to give them a non-violent reason to practice ice spells, but equally because the carving only required dull-edged chisels. Harder materials like wood and stone came later. Kit had spent all her evenings on the problem for weeks, so she make it look perfect, effortless when she finally showed her mentor.  

She liked to remember those solitary hours when she’d been absorbed by the spells, theorizing and testing and analyzing. It was proof that there’d always been _something_ worthwhile in her. Something other than…

Other than the holy terror who’d appeared in that tableau. She had been so cruel to Vivienne, and she hadn’t even known it—or was that another way of letting herself off the hook? The pretty hair, the showy casting… she probably _had_ known. 

It made her sick to see herself as she’d really been.

“Do not listen,” instructed Cassandra, taking Kit’s arm and dragging her onward. “It is trying to weaken you.” 

It was doing a good job of it. 

“This way!” Glynnis shouted, her insubstantial form flickering. They followed her to a small cemetery. Lopsided tombstones clustered within a small, wrought-iron fence. Each bore a name and a motto. Varric: Became His Parents. Cassandra: Helplessness. Dorian: Temptation. Solas: Dying Alone. Loghain: Disloyalty. Hawke: Being A Disappointment.

Katherine: POWER.

“When someone gives you power, _Herald of Andraste_ , you throw it away,” taunted the nightmare. “When someone has power over you, you tear them apart.” 

That… was true. That was putting it _lightly_. She hadn’t just walked away from a glowing future in the Circle, the road to First Enchanter rolling paved and straight before her. She’d dragged Glynnis through the mud along the way. The woman she’d loved most in the world. 

And Cullen. Who told her he’d want her forever, only to be proven wrong the very next day.

Her throat closed.

What was wrong with her? She didn’t _want_ to hurt them, she didn’t _set out_ to hurt them… 

But why was she letting herself off the hook? Maybe she _was_ still the little monster who’d set her mother on fire, who’d humiliated Vivienne to score points. 

Not just hard, or hardened—those were words she liked, words that suggested cause and effect, provided justification—but hateful and sadistic. 

The next tableau started with something that Kit actually remembered: the death of the Orlesian Templar, Luc. The jealous one she’d provoked into a duel with a better swordsman. 

> _The Templar lay on the ground, surrounded by a corona of his own blood. His helmet rested a few feet away, leaving his face bare. He looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties, neither ugly nor handsome. Forgettable._
> 
> _Kit stood over the body. Around twenty now, she wore the robes of a full enchanter, with the sleeves chopped above the elbow and neatly hemmed, extra pockets sewn on at either hip… and a loose, open neckline with nothing beneath. The elaborate gem-studded hairstyles had been abandoned; she wore her hair down in a tumble of shiny waves._
> 
> _She didn’t look angry or sad or proud. Only determined._
> 
> _Nearby, First Enchanter Glynnis argued with a man wearing the Knight-Commander’s insignia. They shouted at one another, and then Glynnis stalked over to Kit._

The Kit in the tableau vanished before Glynnis reached her, so the ghostly Glynnis marched on the real, flesh-and-blood Kit instead.

And why not? They were recognizably the same person. The spectral Kit in this tableau looked pretty similar to the woman Kit saw in the mirror every day. Wore the same expression, uncompromising and bleak.  

> _“I have convinced him to spare the brand, but this is the last time I lift a finger in your defense,” Glynnis seethed. “I don’t want to hear your justifications. You have become a creature of spite and this is monstrous. I wash my hands of you, Kit.”_

Kit shuddered. She had forgotten. Of course she had—she could already feel her mind rejecting the memory, trying to crumple and bury it. _A creature of spite._ Glynnis had said that? 

“She taught you to build,” the nightmare boomed, “but all you know how to do is destroy.” 

 _All you know how to do is destroy_. 

She wanted to defend herself. Insist that the demon was wrong, explain herself. But that was the problem. It had all made sense at the time. That bastard Luc—if she told her companions all the things he’d done, they’d understand. A few would probably assure her she’d done the right thing, and she’d be one step closer to forgetting—for a second time now—all the memories the nightmare had stolen.

But the memories were real. And if the results were always the same—the Divine dead, her mother burned, Vivienne humiliated, Luc dead, Cullen right back where he’d started—the steps between didn’t matter so much. The deeper truth lay in the pattern.

“She taught you to build,” the nightmare chanted, “but all you know how to do is destroy.” 

Loghain took her by the arm and pulled her onwards, forcing her to keep pace with him. 

He bent his lips to her ear. “Fall apart now and you’ll only get the rest of us killed,” he murmured in his gravelly voice. “Is that what you want?”

No. Of course not.

But… what if it was? What if she was lying to herself about that, too? She’d brought them all here. She’d ripped a hole in the Veil to do it, and that put her in _such_ an elite company. The seven Tevinter magisters and _her_. 

“She taught you to build, but all you know how to do is destroy,” called the nightmare… or did it? She wasn’t sure if she was really hearing it, or if the demon spoke inside her mind, or if she’d lost the ability to tell the difference between truth and imagination. 

Kit began to see mages wearing robes that identified them as being from Circles in the Free Marches. They all died as she came close—cut down by Templars, abandoned by the mercenaries Kit had hired to protect them. She saw Aileen shivering in a damp cave, her robes sodden. Ginevra fighting off a whole band of bandits only to be mauled by a bear before she could recover her mana. 

Cullen in his camp bed, his head buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. 

By the time they confronted the demon itself, it couldn’t frighten her. Not its size, not its gaping maw, not its long spindly legs. It was a monster. She could hate it, she could kill it. That was so much easier than looking inside herself. 

The Fade Rift glowed just beyond, mist-shrouded and flickering. 

“Glynnis led us here,” Kit said numbly. “She led us straight to the demon.” 

She hated Kit enough to kill her. 

“Glynnis _was_ a demon,” Cassandra snapped. “Have you forgotten? You told us to kill it.” 

“Hey, Seeker—” Varric interceded, his voice low. 

Kit didn’t listen.

She _had_ told them to kill it, hadn’t she? She’d seen Glynnis for the first time in months, heard that gentle, chiding voice that Glynnis had stopped using on her _years_ ago, and her first impulse had been to destroy her. It. 

What's more, she’d tried to make _someone else_ kill Glynnis. To let them take responsibility while she kept her hands clean. Why else had she come here, to Adamant? She’d planted the seeds of revolt and walked away. Let her friends do the dirty work.  

 _She taught you to build, but all you know how to do is destroy_.

“We need to clear a path,” said Loghain. 

“Go!” Hawke cried. “I’ll cover you.” 

The others ran toward the Rift. Kit ought to have gone with them, but Loghain still had hold of her arm and… and she didn’t really have the energy to run. 

“No,” Loghain countered. “You were right. A Warden made this mistake, a Warden must—”

“A Warden must rebuild!” Hawke insisted. “That’s your job. Corypheus is mine.” 

“You’re both wrong,” Kit said. Her voice came out shaky, but a deep certainty steadied her. She shook Loghain’s hand away and stood on her own two feet. She would prove the nightmare wrong. 

“ _I_ will stay,” she said. “I’m a mage. I’m more familiar with the Fade. And with my Mark, I’m the only one who stands a chance of escaping.” 

Hawke and Loghain exchanged a glance. 

“Rock, paper, scissors?” suggested Loghain. 

Hawke shrugged one shoulder. “Fine by me.” 

Kit shook her head. She had to stay. Both Hawke and Loghain were more important than her. They’d said it: someone had to deal with Corypheus, to rebuild the Wardens. And she… would be of no use then. 

She could convince them. She was good at that. She always got her way, didn’t she? If she couldn’t think of the right argument, then she’d come up with the right spell. 

Something hit the back of her head, hard. Pain flashed, chased by nausea. Her vision went white and then faded to black. 


	40. the one who has already been leading us (by the nose)

Cullen cursed Loghain’s facility with maps as he made his way through Adamant. He’d taken the most direct route to Clarel and Cullen couldn’t think of a good excuse to choose a different path. Which left him following in the Warden’s—in _Kit’s_ —footsteps. 

He paused in a long rectangular courtyard where almost a dozen Wardens lay in a puddle, their exposed skin mottled and puffy. Lightning struck. Others had been burnt to char, only a few trappings of their blue-and-silver armor to identify them. 

The corpses bothered him and he had a hard time articulating why. 

“We hear stories about how a single mage can turn the tide of battle, but I’d never believed it,” said Rylan, at his side. “Until now, anyhow.” 

Cullen nodded. That was part of it. “I had the impression she was… not very powerful,” he admitted. He’d fought with Kit at the Rifts and she’d seemed competent enough. _Not bad for a civilian_ , he might have said, secretly pleased that she’d be no threat to a well-trained Templar.

“Oh, that’s just the Ostwick in her,” said Rylan. “They’re all like that. Ten years in Kirkwall and you never met any Ostwick mages?” 

“Not that I remember.” He followed the trail of bodies deeper into the fortress, through a narrow door of heavy stone. Dwarven architecture, heavy and oppressive as any underground city. “Mages didn’t come to Kirkwall willingly. Not to visit, certainly not to stay.” 

“No, they wouldn’t have. But you might have done some traveling.” 

“On the rare occasions when I had leave from Kirkwall, the very last thing I wanted to do was meet more mages.” Then, to be fair, Cullen added, “Or Templars.” 

Rylan laughed.

“I know Ostwick had a reputation for being quiet,” Cullen continued, as they circled around the body of a Warden that had been… pulped. Bones, flesh, armor all crushed by some overwhelming, impossible force. “A few of the older Templars tried to transfer there when the first signs of lyrium sickness set in. They thought to spend a few years usefully occupied before retiring to a monastery.” 

“Oh?” Rylan raised his eyebrows. “What happened?” 

“They were all turned down,” Cullen answered. “I don’t know if it was the impending dementia or the taint of Kirkwall or both.”

“I can tell you we dreaded getting transfers _from_ Ostwick,” Rylan said. “They’d always be absolute shitstains. The Knight-Commander there was quick to get rid of bad apples.” 

“When did you start noticing?” Cullen asked, morbidly curious. Almost to the battlements, now. After that, he wouldn’t _know_ who Kit had killed. He’d be able to stop picturing it. “Was that a recent phenomenon?” 

“Couldn’t rightly say. Last few years to be sure, but before that…” Rylan scratched his chin. 

Leliana dropped down from the roof of a high tower, chainmail clinking and bow slung over her back. “You can go on ahead, Ser Rylan,” she said. “The fighting in the inner bailey is over now, but they’ll need organizing. There’s a Rift in the courtyard.”

“Where’d the Herald get off to?” Rylan asked. 

Leliana didn’t answer. After a few seconds, she didn't need to. Her silence said it all. 

 _Good_ , Cullen thought, while his stomach clenched and roiled. _Good_.

He could put this whole… this whole… _mess_ behind him. No point in second-guessing himself, wondering how he’d missed the signs or asking himself _why_ and _how could she_. He’d never have to see her again.  

Over was—his knees threatened to give way; his vision nearly whited out—better. He was _grateful_. The Maker had spared him from any further stupidity. 

“Not just Kit.” Leliana slunk close, her voice low. “Cassandra died with her. So did the Champion, Warden Loghain… Varric and Solas and Dorian.” 

He did lurch a bit at that, stunned by the enormity of it. “Sweet Maker. So many of our best, _Thedas’s_ best, all at once…”

It was like a second Conclave. First the sky had opened up to swallow the Chantry’s finest; now the heroes were gone, too.  

Was this what the end of the world looked like? Felt like? One devastating loss after another until all the strength and hope and faith had vanished, and only despair remained? 

“So,” he said, feeling very much like he had at Haven. They were losing this war, but they could still decide how. They could go out fighting. 

“So,” Leliana agreed. 

“I am beginning to wonder if there is any difference at all between defeat and victory. If there is, I fail to see it.” He continued along the battlements, Leliana at his side. “How…?” 

“The dragon attacked… a platform collapsed. They fell into the Abyssal Rift. I saw it happen.” 

They reached the inner bailey. Inside, the surviving Wardens had joined forces with the Inquisition troops. They worked together, in orderly fashion, to combat demons as they emerged from the Fade Rift at the center of the courtyard. 

“What now?” he wondered. 

“If we keep the Wardens on our side…” Leliana knuckled her forehead. “Perhaps we should relocate here, to Adamant. A sizable fortress, remote. A faction with no proper leader. Clarel died, too.”

Maker’s breath. The Warden-Commander of Orlais as well? He couldn’t think of another battle in the entire history of Thedas with such a casualty list. 

And he’d stood at the head of the army. Such a life’s work: Kinloch, Kirkwall, and now Adamant. He truly progressed from infamy to infamy.

“To a desert fortress that spits demons into the inner courtyard, where the inhabitants ought to be most secure? Don’t be absurd.” 

Leliana’s shoulders slumped. “Then you tell me. Because I don’t know.” 

“Congratulate our soldiers. Double their liquor rations to celebrate our victory.” Cullen paused. “Burn the bodies and play for time.” 

“You’re better at the Game than you think,” said Leliana distantly. She took a deep breath. “Very well. I’ll gather my scouts and search the fortress. We may find some useful information.” 

Before she could go, the Fade Rift at the center of the courtyard flickered and swelled. The warriors ringing it shifted into defensive stances, battle-weary but prepared to meet the challenge. 

A human form took shape in the green glow. Just a silhouette at first, and then a flesh-and-blood body, stumbling onto the courtyard pavers, falling to hands and knees.

Dorian? 

Leliana straightened. “How?” 

Solas came next, almost leaping through the portal, before turning to face the Rift with his staff at the ready. Varric turned, too, his hands closing into fists and opening again in an anxious rhythm.

“Cassandra!” Leliana breathed, eyes widening with hope. “Cassandra’s alive! It’s a…”

She did not say _miracle_. 

They’d both had enough of miracles, he imagined.  

The warriors backed away from the Rift, giving the new arrivals space while holding their weapons at the ready. Good men. Anything that came from the Fade ought to be greeted with suspicion. 

“This is it. Right now.” Leliana took hold of his surcoat, suddenly fierce. “We won’t get a better opportunity.”

He followed her to the center of the courtyard. Even lyrium-depleted as he was, Cullen could feel the blood magic in the air, heavy and cloying. A strange silhouette took shape in the acid green glow of the Rift. Narrow at the bottom and unnaturally bulky at the top, he first took it for a Rage demon. But the shadows soon resolved into the shape of two women: Hawke, bent under the weight of a limp, female form she carried over her shoulder. 

His heart began to pound. 

He did not want to see the body. He didn’t want to see the wounds and read the story of her last moments in them. He did not—oh, Maker, he did not want to see her on a pyre. 

“Andraste preserve us,” Leliana whispered. 

Hawke’s feet settled firmly on the ground. She straightened, let go her burden, and Cullen reached out to catch Kit’s corpse before it hit the ground…

But Kit remained upright. Unsteady on her feet, unable to carry her whole weight, but undoubtedly alive.

Cullen snatched his arms back. 

“Wakey-wakey.” Hawke slapped Kit on the cheek. “Nap time’s over.” 

Kit moaned and tried to shake herself free, to no effect. She looked awful: hollow-cheeked and drawn, the bright colors of her ugly patchwork coat all stained to a uniform dun. 

“Draw your sword,” whispered Leliana. 

“What?” Cullen asked. 

“We’ll present her to the Inquisition while she’s still woozy,” said Leliana. “She won’t resist. It’s perfect”

“No.” Cassandra seized Cullen’s sword arm before he could obey. “I cannot agree to this plan. Not after what we just learned in the Fade.” 

Leliana huffed. “Do you have another way to retake Skyhold?” 

“No.”

“Can you convince these soldiers that someone _other_ than Kit deserves credit for your survival?”

“The credit is not hers alone.” Cassandra looked back at the Rift, still throbbing with Fade energy. “Warden Loghain saved us, in the end.”

“Oh, yes, let’s all celebrate our new savior, _Loghain_ ,” Leliana hissed. “That will go over well.” 

Cullen had hoped Cassandra would win this argument, but it seemed unlikely. He gestured for Hawke to transfer Kit into his arms. 

Hawke narrowed her eyes, flicking a suspicious glance from Cullen to Leliana and Cassandra. “What are you planning?” 

“Only to honor her,” said Cullen. And then, somewhat bitterly, “For the part she’s played in our success.” 

“No. Not right now.” Hawke jerked her chin toward the milling audience. “And certainly not like this, with a crowd watching.” 

Cullen froze. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” 

“I mean we’ve just had a nice visit to the land of nightmares, and _this_ is hers. Now leave her alone and go find some other bit of ceremonial claptrap to entertain your soldiers.” 

At the word ‘nightmares’ Kit stirred. She blinked a couple of times, her gaze unfocused, and groped about with one arm. Looking for her staff, though it was gone, and she wouldn’t have had the strength to lift it in any case. 

He wanted to hold her and comfort her and it made him so _angry_. 

“I’m not asking.” He seized one of Kit’s wrists, so Hawke couldn’t carry her away without engaging in a tug of war. “This isn’t Kirkwall. You have no authority here. The soldiers surrounding you right now are _mine_ and unless you want to be frog-marched out of the fortress—by as many knights as it takes, Hawke, they’re not busy with anything else right now—you will _let go_.”

Hawke held on tight. “If there is an ounce of decency in you, Cullen, you will leave her alone.”

“I don’t believe I asked for a character assessment.” Cullen nodded to the arm Hawke had wrapped around Kit’s ribs. “Let go, Hawke.” 

“You never learn, do you?” Hawke eased Kit into his arms and stepped back. “Ten years later and you’re still just a bucketheaded lunk with a chip on his shoulder.” 

She limped away, shaking her head. That was giving in gracefully, for Hawke. 

Kit slumped against him, mostly dead weight but boneless and yielding. She smelled like smoke and blood, with an odorless tang that made his nose smart like alcohol fumes.  

Kit jerked. “Cullen?” she said dreamily. “Why are you… aren’t you…?” 

He frowned and her mouth clattered shut.

“Stand up,” he ordered, and she wobbled obediently.

Leliana had been right. While she was woozy.

“I’ll take her up to the landing,” he said to Leliana and Cassandra. “They’ll be able to see her better.” 

Cassandra shook her head and disappeared into the crowd. 

“She is unhappy,” Leliana explained, unnecessarily. “Go. I’ll spread the word, prepare everyone.” 

Kit’s took some of her own weight as they mounted the stairs, lifted her feet from step to step. By the time they reached the top, she could hold her head up. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Just come along,” he said shortly. 

She calmed. It was so disconcerting he almost warned her. _We will bind you, use you against your own people_.  But really, he looked forward to that. 

Soldiers filtered in from elsewhere in the fortress, filling the inner bailey to capacity. Cullen slowly settled Kit on her own two feet, though he kept hold of one arm. 

He drew his sword and held it aloft. Voices quieted, faces turned their way. 

“Inquisition!” he shouted. “Adamant is ours!” 

The soldiers roared. 

“We took the fortress, but that was not our victory. We made allies from our enemies, but _that_ was not our victory.” It all sounded so encouraging, when shouted at the top of his lungs. So inspirational. But when he’d believed it, it had only been tragic. “We won the day when our Herald walked out of the Fade.” 

Kit jerked when the soldiers cheered, features twisting in a grimace. 

“Inquisition!” he shouted again. “Will you follow?” 

The soldiers’ voices rang from wall to wall, out into the silent desert night.Kit tried to twist away; he tightened his grip on her arm. 

“Will you fight?” 

The shouts doubled in volume—they had fought, they were not beaten, they would shred their throats to prove it. And still he heard Kit whisper, “No,” as though it were the only sound for miles. 

“Will we triumph?” 

This time, while the onlookers hollered, Cullen dipped his head to the side and said, under his breath, “Stand straight. Put your chin up. Try to look pleased.” 

Kit shook her head and tried to tug loose. A spark of lightning flickered on her palm. Cullen very deliberately met her eyes and then directed her gaze to the Templars hovering nearby. 

Kit shivered, instantly defeated. 

“Your leader!” 

He folded Kit’s fingers around the hilt of his sword. And, because she wouldn’t grip it, he covered her hand with his own and lifted both of their arms into the air. 

“Your Herald!” 

Kit began to struggle in earnest. He held her, not kindly at all: one hand over hers on the upraised sword, squeezing tighter and tighter as she tried to squirm her fingers free, the other hard on her hip, to hold her in place as she tried to duck and twist. 

Cullen bent his head to her ear again. “I am going to hold you here, in this position, until you say something appropriate.” 

“I won’t,” she moaned, not at all like herself. Her eyes were wide with horror, and not the horror of a woman who had been outmaneuvered but real soul-sickness. 

What exactly had happened in the Fade?

“A few words,” he continued. “The sooner you agree, the sooner it’s over.” 

The soldiers’ hurrahs began to die down. Cullen readied his final sally. 

“Your _Inquisitor_!” he bellowed, to the loudest cheers of all. Leliana had been right about one thing: they believed. They were hungry for signs and miracles, and she kept giving them what they wanted. 

“You accept,” he suggested, lowly, for an audience of one. “You’ll try to deserve this great honor.” 

If she were more herself, she wouldn’t have done it. She’d have come up with something subversive, twisted the ceremony to her own ends. But he appeared to be holding up a pale shadow of the woman he knew. Too exhausted to plot, too weak to resist. 

“First we kill Corypheus,” she called. Her misery gave her voice a strange intensity, throbbing and vulnerable. The soldiers felt it; they _loved_ her for it. “And then it will be time to rebuild. To a new world, better than the old!”

She closed the Fade Rift in the courtyard then. The resulting explosion provoked more cheers; she’d made a promise and given them fireworks, both at once. 

He let go. Her shoulders slumped and she turned to flee, weeping openly. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full deets on those last few minutes in the Fade to come. I just wanted to end this chapter here.


	41. here lies the abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick state-o-the-fic. This is rock bottom. The only way to go from here is up. I'm not saying it'll be smooth sailing, because that would be boring, but the next big plot point is Celene's ball & I do not want to squander that dance scene. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. The counter just clicked over 200 kudos & I'm excited. I'll try to make the payoff worth the pain. 
> 
> Speaking of pain, however, I got a request for hatesex & it spawned this little plot bunny about Cullen visiting a prostitute. I ended up writing out the whole scenario. It takes place a few days after the end of this chapter and before the next one starts. I'm posting it separately because it's non-canon, though it turned out way sappier than I thought it would. 
> 
> If you're interested, it's here: [Role Play](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4621680)

Kit opened her eyes. She couldn’t call it waking up; she was too groggy for that, tongue furred and a foul taste in her mouth. Magebane, judging by the gnawing void where her mana ought to be, and something else. 

Whatever they’d given her, it made her head feel like it weighed about eighty pounds. Movement was out of the question, but from her fixed position she could take in the essentials. Dry heat, still air, walls built of gray stone. Adamant. 

And the bored Templar sitting in a chair by the door told her that things were going… about as well as she’d expected.

Sedated, guarded, alone. It could be worse… it probably _would_ be worse, as soon as they could organize it. Inquisitor. Did they need her to counteract the influence of the Skyhold mages? To serve as a figurehead? She needed to think through the possibilities. To weigh the pros and cons of compliance… at least _try_ to escape. 

But it seemed like such a colossal effort. She didn’t want to think or choose or commit to a course of action. Didn’t want to _do_ anything. She wanted to lie still and let the world carry on without her for a while. 

Lucky that she had no choice in the matter.  

 

***

 

“So I went through the Rift and it spit me out here at Adamant,” Varric finished. “I didn't see what happened after that, so Hawke will have to take over.” 

The dwarf sat at a low stone table in front of a full plate. Everyone else had eaten; Varric had talked. And talked, and talked… he’d drained three tankards of ale and still sounded hoarse. 

He’d explained how Kit acquired her Mark at the Conclave, how she’d escaped the Fade. Described the demon guide who appeared in the guise of Kit’s mentor, the demon lord who’d wielded their memories and fears like weapons. 

Cullen had picked at his food and now stood in the doorway, ears tuned to Varric’s tale but watching the room across the way. Two of Leliana’s scouts guarded the door. Inside, Kit slept. 

“I think we could have taken that nightmare demon,” Hawke began. “I really do. But killing it would have cost lives when all we really wanted was escape. Easy decision. I volunteered to stay behind and keep the demon occupied, to give the others a chance to reach the portal.” 

“You pick the _worst_ times to turn noble on us all,” complained Varric. 

“Come up with an idea like that one, Varric, and you’d better be willing to raise your hand,” returned Hawke, with some passion. “Otherwise, sooner or later, all the people whose lives you’ve valued so cheaply will come after you with pitchforks.” 

“You are worth ten of me, and I’m not ashamed to say it,” said Cassandra. “If I’d known what you intended, I would have stayed.” 

“Well, aren’t we just _swimming_ in volunteers?” Hawke leaned back on her elbows, torso loose, smiling her insufferably cocky smile. “Loghain had the same idea as I did, and he tried to convince me that _he_ ought to be the one to stay.”

“Tried to?” Dorian asked. He'd come to dinner in a silk dressing robe, hair wet from washing and mustache perfectly waxed. “It looks to me like he succeeded.” 

“He _cheated!_ ” Hawke sat up straighter. “Loghain had been leading Kit around for a while at that point, so she was there, and of course she volunteered, too—”

“She wasn’t fit to make such an offer,” Solas objected. “In the state she was in, I don’t think she could distinguish reality from hallucination, present from past.”

Cullen winced. He knew what that was like. 

Hawke snorted. “No need to convince _me_. Though, I’ll give her credit, she made a pretty rational argument for a woman in the middle of a complete mental breakdown.” 

“She’s devious to her core,” muttered Cullen. Silence fell over the room and he shifted, facing the others. “Isn’t that what the nightmare demon showed you? How she—”

“Shut up, Curly,” said Varric, very seriously. 

Cullen shrugged and turned his attention back to Kit’s door. It opened; the Templar inside poked her head out, exchanged a few words with the scouts. One of them trotted away toward the kitchens.

Kit was awake. 

“So Loghain suggested we play a game of rock, paper, scissors,” Hawke continued. She paused. “Looking back, I should have realized he was up to something right then. Loghain Mac Tir was not the kind of man who let a game of chance determine his fate.” 

“Whereas _you_ absolutely are,” said Varric. 

“Oh, I thought it was a marvelous idea,” Hawke agreed. “I was standing there, trying to figure out if he’d be more likely to choose rock or scissors—paper was out of the question, I was quite certain—when he hit Kit in the back of the head with the pommel of his sword and _threw_ her at me.”

Hawke snorted, shaking her head in wonder. “I had to catch her; I couldn’t just _leave_ her there. And meanwhile he ran off to engage the demon. So I threw Kit over my shoulder and headed for the Rift.” 

“A strategist to the end,” murmured Leliana.

“He was a sour old bastard, but I was starting to like him,” said Hawke. “He could think on his feet and he was completely fearless. I'm sorry he's gone.” 

“You have terrible taste in friends,” said Varric, raising his tankard. "But I have to admit, he was as solid as they come during the siege. Came through for us all. To the Hero of River Dane." 

Everyone at the table followed Varric's lead--even Leliana, who splashed a bit of brandy into her empty water glass so she could drink. 

“So now that we’ve paid the toll, are you going to explain this whole Inquisitor thing?” Varric asked. "Because that was pretty dramatic. And unexpected. And, frankly, awful." 

"Not just yet." Leliana stood up from the table, began to pace back and forth along the wall, hands clasped at the small of her back. "You all joined the Inquisition for different reasons, with different goals. It's time to decide: are you with us? Will you fight under our banner through thick and thin? If the answer is yes, then stay. We have a very important mission ahead. If not, it's best that you leave.” 

Hawke stood. “I’m out. I haven’t been here long and I don’t like what I’ve seen. I’ll go to Weisshaupt. The Grey Wardens are in disarray. Maybe I can knock some sense into them.” 

Leliana nodded. “Safe travels, Hawke. We'll be here if you need us.” 

Hawke shot Cullen a scathing look as she sauntered past.

“Anyone else?” Leliana asked. 

“I am with you until Corypheus is dead,” said Solas. “As for the others…” 

Nods all around, noises of assent. Outside, the scout who'd run off to the kitchens returned with a loaded tray. He knocked on the door to Kit’s room. The Templar opened it, took the tray, withdrew. The scout took up his position by the door. 

“Then I won’t mince words," said Leliana. "Tomorrow we will set out in advance of the army, as a small group. Incognito; if we're lucky, very few people will ever learn what we're about to do. You see, the rebel mages have taken Skyhold, and we want it back.” 

Varric slammed his fist on the table and shouted, “Andraste’s ass. I knew it!” Cassandra sank lower in her seat, staring blankly into the distance. Dorian twirled his mustache, eyes bright. And Solas… smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with pleasure. 

“It would be madness to attack the fortress,” said Cullen. “We’re already licking our wounds in the wake of a costly siege. Even if we could justify another…” 

“We couldn’t survive the political consequences,” Leliana finished. “So we’ll have to convince the mages to _let_ us back in. Kit’s title is… a gesture of good faith.” 

“And a threat,” added Dorian. “Since we’re not mincing words.”

Leliana nodded. “And a threat.”  

The door to Kit's room opened again. The Templar poked her head out, addressed the scouts. The other one trotted away and returned with a sponge and a bucket. 

So Kit had destroyed her food rather than eat it. She was awake _and_ angry. 

He waved at Leliana, so she wouldn’t worry, and crossed the courtyard. He arrived at Kit's door just as the scout emerged from the room with the tray, now pressed into service as a trash receptacle. 

The Templar saluted and stepped outside, though she left the door open by a few inches. 

Kit lay on her side, still wearing the same clothes she'd put on that morning, blood in her hair and dirt on her cheek. Her eyes were open but dull, bloodshot. One of her arms hung limply over the side of her cot. The one she’d swung at her tray, no doubt; the sedative had only just begun to clear her system.

He took a couple of steps inside, dropped down on one knee. 

“Everything arranged to your liking, Ser Knight?” Kit slurred. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Nobody deserves what you just went through.”

She blinked several times—tears?—and looked away.

“And I’m sorry…” He’d rehearsed a thousand angry accusations, all of them suddenly irrelevant. She'd been through worse than he could ever have wished on her. But something had to be said about... had it only been the night before? It felt like a lifetime. "I’m sorry that I didn’t listen. You told me everything I needed to know. You never pretended to care for me. You warned me not to care for you. It was my mistake.”

Her chest heaved. She held her breath for a long beat and then said, roughly, “Please go away.” 

“In a minute,” he replied. “I’m sorry… It gives me no pleasure to see you like this. I can’t believe I thought it would. I’m sorry that this is necessary.”

“ _Necessary_.” She made a pained, hacking noise. “To the Void with you. Lousy hypocrite.”

“Necessary,” he repeated. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Kit. If you give me your parole, promise to cooperate, we can relax the guard, give you some privacy."

"And you'd believe me?"

No. He'd never believe her again. He'd take one guard away and add three elsewhere.

"I'll accept your parole," he said, neutrally. 

Her lip curled. "Liar."

"Is that your answer?"

"I'll pretend to cooperate. I'm pretty good at that." With some effort, she raised the limp arm dangling over the side of the bed and let it fall folded over her waist. She sighed, let her eyelids droop. "Then, one day, I'll catch you off your guard and slit your fucking throat."

"The other option is magebane," Cullen continued. "And if you won't take that, you'll be silenced."

“Just go. Please.” 

Please. She’d said it twice now—when, as far as he could remember, she’d never used the word before. 

“Of course.” He stood. Wavered. Said, “I’m sorry,” again, and left.


	42. meanwhile, back at the ranch

If someone had asked The Iron Bull what an isolated fiefdom ruled and populated exclusively by mages would look like, he’d have guessed something in between a war zone and an asylum. Having served time in both, he really couldn’t imagine anything worse.

So he’d been ready to collect his earnings and make a graceful exit from this Skyhold gig. He'd sent out feelers to other mercenary companies he trusted, people who deserved a good payday… people who he might need favors from later. 

Luckily, however, nobody had asked Bull what he expected. Because he would have been dead wrong.

The Skyhold mages _were_ an outrage to the Qun. Not because of their violent, undisciplined use of magic—they were pretty docile, really—but because they had to debate everything. 

Every. Little. Thing. 

Nobody in charge. Nobody to stop them from going round and round in circles without ever making a decision. The second he passed through the door from the great hall into the corridor that led to the War Room, he could hear the endless talking. 

“We can accelerate the growth of most fruits and vegetables to a 'season' that lasts about two weeks,” Nina was saying. “At that rate, we can supply all of Skyhold several times over. But we still need dry goods. Our stores of flour and sugar will run out in less than a month.” 

This again. He had never set foot inside the Skyhold kitchen but he now had a running tally of exactly how many sacks of flour it contained. 

“The second we cross that bridge, none of us are safe,” said Fiona. “Until this war is over, the only people we send away from Skyhold should be The Iron Bull and his Chargers.” 

They wanted him to do their grocery shopping now? Really?

“This war could go on for years, Fiona,” said Theo. “We’ve got substantial gold reserves but they won’t last forever. We need _income_. That means hiring ourselves out or making products we can sell.” 

“But who are we going to sell _to_?” Bits asked. “Does anyone have any good merchant contacts?” 

“We could sell produce,” said Nina. “Anyone living in the nearby settlements would travel to Skyhold for fresh fruit and vegetables. Give us a little time and we’ll be able to add exotics to the mix. Oranges, lemons, peaches. Those could fetch a good price.” 

“A good price that none of the inhabitants of these high Frostback villages could afford,” Theo returned. “But I like the idea, Nina. If we can attract the locals, eventually word will spread and traders will come.” 

Bull pushed open the door to the War Room. The mages had removed the markers from the War Table early on; right then about a third of the remarkably accurate and painstakingly inked map of southern Thedas was invisible beneath an assortment of empty tea cups and tiny plates, used to hold tiny cookies, a half-empty platter of which covered the entirety of the Waking Sea. 

Yup. He’d reached the inner sanctum of the fearsome rebel mages, caught amidst their vile plotting.

Both Nina and Fiona wore shapeless house dresses, their hair pulled up into sloppy buns. They looked like they ought to be knitting sweaters for little nieces and nephews. Theo, the only remotely imposing personality in the room, dressed like a farmer. At least Bits wore proper shoes. Thick-soled boots to go with the tunic and legging combo she donned for the daily combat training classes she’d organized.

“We’ve got visitors,” Bull announced. 

That got their attention. 

“No uniforms, no banners, no army, but that delectable redheaded spymaster is hard to mistake. Small group. They’ve set up tents on the other side of the bridge and raised a white flag, asked to parley.” 

“Did they bring Kit?” Bits asked.

“Don’t know,” Bull answered. “I didn’t see her, but I don’t have a complete headcount yet. Krem is on it.” 

Fiona wrung her hands. “We should find out what they want.” 

Fiona was the sort of person who gave re-educators a good name. A few months of rehabilitation and she’d be good as new. Not that anyone in southern Thedas wanted to hear that. 

“Who cares what _they_ want,” said Bits. “Either they give us Kit and go away or they don’t give us Kit and we kill them all.” 

_Finally_ a bit of tough talk. Ever since they'd taken the fortress the mages had been so, so  _boring_.

“So,” said Bull. “That means we’re going to chat? I’ll round up a few of my boys. You’ll need an escort.” 

By the time the mages reached the portcullis, he’d been standing by with Dalish and Grim for long enough to start a game of Wicked Grace. The mages had put on heavy velvet robes embroidered in gold, dusted off their shiniest staves, and managed to look… reasonably intimidating, actually. 

Bull signaled for Grim to raise the portcullis. Gears creaked as the heavy iron lattice lifted in stutters and starts. On his way out, he found Krem on the battlements and gave his lieutenant a salute. Krem would remain inside the fortress, in case anything went wrong. 

The portcullis shut behind them as they crossed the long bridge over the frozen lake, finally arriving at the gatehouse on the opposite side. Dalish manned the winch this time, raising the second gate and standing guard by the lever. A position that also, not coincidentally, gave her an excellent vantage point from which to fire her “arrows.” 

The primary message that the little Inquisition camp sent was “non-threatening.” If they’d brought more than twenty people, he’d eat his boot. Maybe a half-dozen Templars. Scouts somewhere, and he’d like to get a good estimate of those numbers. Would be more informative than this disarming dog-and-pony show.

The spymaster stepped forward, her hood pooled around her shoulders. She was so lovely, so delicately feminine, that revealing her naked face was almost like putting on a mask. 

The Nightingale knew her trade, he’d give her that. 

“Have you come to trade hostages?” Nina asked.

“We don’t have anyone to trade,” said Leliana, with a small secret smile that told him—if not the mages, who paled and slumped—that Kit wasn’t dead.

“Then this parley is over,” said Nina.

“Before you go…” said Leliana, bright and lilting. “I thought you might like to meet our new Inquisitor.” 

There it was. First shot fired. Like a glob of saar-qamek arcing through the air. 

Now to see where it landed.

Nina shrugged. “Very well.” 

“I’m afraid she’s resting just now,” said Leliana. “Allow me to show you to her tent?” 

“Bull?” Nina asked. 

“We’re fine,” he assured her. “Things get hairy and you run. Dalish will cover you.” 

“This way,” said Leliana, leading them to their little camp. 

Bull didn’t recognize the motley trio sitting by the fire, pretending not to eavesdrop—a human, Tevinter by the looks of him, a bald elf, and a dwarf.

The Commander himself paced back and forth in front of one of the tents. Bull had never seen the man before, but he looked just as described. Handsome bastard. And he seemed to recognize the mages, to know their faces and not just their staves. Interesting. 

Leliana pulled back the flap of the tent. Not much inside. Just a cot with a woman on it, sleeping peacefully. 

Bull hadn’t spent much time with Kit, but he was inclined to like her. She’d hatched the plan they’d used to take Skyhold. That was good. She’d then had enough sense to step aside and let him do his job. That was _very_ good. 

But the real kicker? The thing that made her special? The other mages had all bought into her plan before they even knew what it was. Kit said she had an idea and they were on board, ready to go. 

So Bull got it. In fact, he should have predicted something like this. Kit wasn’t just a friend or a co-conspirator. She was one of those rare people who made things happen. 

She was a lever. 

The mages understood it instinctively. They way they talked about her, looked forward to her return. He’d listened to one long conversation about what they’d trade for her, how many of their hostages, how much of their gold. They were ready to give up a lot—more than they could afford. 

But the Inquisition understood it _consciously_. They’d dubbed Kit the Herald of Andraste and used her to batter their way to power and prominence. And now they expected her to perform another miracle… while lying on a cot in a drugged stupor. 

“No one to trade?” Nina repeated, acid now.

“She is one of us,” Leliana said. “Our leader. Where she goes, we go.”

The tip of Nina’s staff iced over, wisps of cold mist swirling around it. Bull was about to step between her and the dwarf by the fire, who held a loaded crossbow in his lap, when Bits cast a barrier spell over them all. 

“We do not break truce,” said Theo, a restraining hand on Bits’s arm. “If you want something, Nightingale, you’re going to have to tell us what it is.”

“We seek an alliance,” answered Leliana. 

Theo snorted. “Not going to happen.” 

“Theo, isn’t it?” The Commander had a light voice, self-consciously gentle. Bull used that trick too. Once a man—or a qunari—reached a certain size, people got pretty jumpy. It could be hard work to put them at ease. “You’re one of Kit’s friends. That’s not enough to at least make you consider coming to terms?” 

“Yeah, he’s her friend.” Bits made no effort to hide her anger. “We all are. You think we don’t know why she’s unconscious? She told us not to make a deal, and she’d keep on telling us. I _love_ that girl. Enough to do what she asked. So you can _fuck off_.”  

“Not the exact words I would have used,” added Nina, calm and wry. “But the sentiment…” She shrugged. 

“She could have real power,” said Leliana. “If you stood by her, supported her. Do you want to hide inside Skyhold until the world’s forgotten you, or do you want to disband the Circles?” 

That was enough to make Theo’s eyes brighten… and shock the Commander. Interesting. 

Theo opened his mouth, but Nina silenced him with a quick wave of her hand. 

“You have us at your mercy,” Leliana continued in a rush. “Allow us to complete our mission—to close the Breach and bring the madman who opened it to justice—and _we_ will help _you_ with _yours_. You could have access to our scouts, to our diplomats, to our trade contacts…”

“We need to speak with Kit,” said Nina. “To make sure you haven’t tampered with her mind. Can that be arranged?” 

Leliana nodded. “This afternoon, if you wish.” 

“We won’t drive you off until we’ve seen her,” said Nina. 

 

 


	43. strange bedfellows

The portcullis lowered slowly then dropped the last couple of feet to land with a crash. Bull shot Dalish a look as she ran down from the barbican to join them.

Bits whirled around and trotted backwards down the bridge. “Have they lost their minds? An _alliance_? Andraste’s pink rosy nipples, why would we even _consider_ such a thing?” 

Nina let her arms hang at her sides, holding her staff at the horizontal. The long metal rod teetered with each step in a slow, soothing rhythm. “They’re desperate.” 

“We should attack,” announced Bits. “Gather every able-bodied fighter in Skyhold, go out in force, take Kit back. Leave them sitting in the snow in their knickers.”  

“I advise against that,” interrupted Bull. “Very strongly.”

“Why?” Bits demanded.

“I can’t tell you what these Inquisition guys will do, but with any kind of hostage or kidnapping situation, standard procedure in the event of a rescue attempt is to kill the target.”

“She might be better off,” said Bits. “Who _knows_ what they have planned for her?”

“She’s escaped the Inquisition twice, Bits.” Fiona looked back over her shoulder, half-afraid and half-fierce, the wind ruffling her short dark hair. “I’d rather not prevent her getting a chance to make it three times.” 

“I think we should come to terms,” said Theo. 

“Oh, please. The second we turned our backs they’d sneak in some Templars and Tranquilize us all.” Bits whacked Theo with her staff. “You’re sleeping on the floor tonight. Without a blanket.” 

“Look,” said Theo. “I get it when you say it’s no good to ask for our rights. That what they give they can take away and asking is an act of submission. All of that. But now _they’re_ asking. So what’s stopping us? Do you even _have_ an explanation?” 

“Yes,” said Bits. “I just told you. They’ll sneak in some Templars and Tranquilize us all.” 

“So there are security issues,” said Theo. “Bull, can’t you do something about that?”

“Yes… and but. There’s no way to eliminate the risk entirely,” said Bull. “You’re safer saying no.”

“I agree with Theo,” said Nina. 

“What?!” Bits recoiled, her staff spraying tiny red sparks in every direction. “I can’t believe you! Nina!” 

“We’ve spent the past week arguing about _flour_ , Bits,” Nina explained. “Say what you want about the Left and Right Hands—and believe me, I have—but we could use the Inquisition’s infrastructure.”

“ _They… will… betray… us_ ,” enunciated Bits. 

“So?” Nina raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes we work with people we don’t like, people we don’t trust. People we’d rather burn to a crisp, in fact. You can learn that in any Circle on Thedas.” 

“There’s something else to consider,” said Fiona. “If we’ve undermined the Inquisition so severely that the whole organization disbands, then we will have to assume responsibility for the Breach and for Corypheus. I refuse to be a tool in that Blighted magister’s conquest of Thedas.” 

“Okay. It's a deal. Let’s go kill Corypheus.” Bits flashed a great cocky smile. “Bet it’ll be easier than securing a steady supply of flour.” 

In almost any other setting, Bull would have thought Bits was bragging. But given what he’d learned about the mages since arriving at Skyhold, she was probably right. 

“We won’t close the Breach without Kit,” said Fiona. “And if you had ever met Corypheus, you would not be so confident. The Wardens held him for almost a millennium. He is no god, but neither is he mortal. I am not certain we would succeed.” 

“So that’s it?” Bits threw up her arms. “All of you are ready to fall over and let the Inquisition trample us? _Again_?” 

 “They have presented us with a problem,” said Nina. “We are analyzing it from all sides. It’s the only way to reach a proper solution.” 

“Don’t you want Kit back, Bits?” Theo asked. “You, most of all.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Bits replied. “I want her back more than anything—and seeing her like that—I could have wrung their necks, every one of those Inquisition dicks—but she told us to act like she was dead. I _know_ Kit. She meant it, and I promised.” 

“If we’re supposed to act like she’s dead, then this isn’t her decision anymore,” said Nina.

“That’s bullshit,” snapped Bits. “Bull. _Shit_.” 

“Hey,” Bull protested. “My shit’s the best shit.”

Theo covered his laugh in a cough. Fiona caught it, though, and shot Bull a quick smile. 

“I’m serious,” Nina insisted. “Kit wanted us to put the good of the rebellion ahead of her welfare. Fine. Let’s do that. On the one hand, we could let them take her away and put her to Maker knows what use as Inquisitor. If they set their minds to breaking her—and they will—she could do us a lot of harm. An ex-rebel-mage who, thanks to the direct intercession of the Maker’s Bride, repudiates us and takes up the cause of 'stability' and 'peace' and forcing us all back into Circles? Can you imagine?”

The other mages all shuddered. 

“Or, on the other hand… we could bring her back. Good as new, but with a great deal more power and authority.”

“They don’t mean it,” Bits warned. 

But Nina only repeated what she’d said at the beginning, this time with greater relish. “They’re desperate.” 

They reached the opposite gate. It opened as they approached, shut behind them after they crossed into the courtyard, and they were back in Skyhold. 

The courtyard had changed. Once they’d cleared out the Templars, the children had been free to come out. Now there were always at least a dozen kids running around in the area between the Great Hall and the tavern, young ones throwing snowballs and playing tag, older ones gossiping in little knots. 

The mages had set up a roster, took turns looking after the little tykes. They were slowly organizing classroom hours, proper schooling. It reminded Bull of home. Not a family, but so much love and cooperation nobody felt like they wee missing out. He never had. 

“I don’t want to lose this,” said Theo, quietly now. Dead serious.

The four mages looked at one another in silent agreement. 

 


	44. bridge the divide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. I'll try to keep the updates coming but I suspect that Trespasser will take up a good chunk of my free time over the next week. 
> 
> So let's all have fun discovering how Bioware is going to break our hearts & then return to AO3 for the happy endings we deserve. 
> 
> (Yes, I'm a pessimist.)

These fucking drugs. They just made time disappear. She’d open her eyes, tell herself, “Guess I’m awake,” and then, sometime later, the sun in an entirely different place in the sky, the same exact thing would happen. 

She never had any idea what went on during the hours in between, although it probably at least resembled sleeping. And she’d been having the craziest dreams. When she wasn’t accidentally setting people on fire it was all flying nugs and talking trees.

She groaned and rubbed her eyes. They kept crusting over. It was disgusting. Everything about being chemically transformed into a human-sized slug was disgusting. She’d wet the bed a few times; that was both disgusting and humiliating. 

“Good afternoon, Inquisitor,” said Leliana.

Kit yelped and jackknifed off the cot, slapping open-handed at her chest in case her heart had stopped. 

“I didn’t mean to shock you.” Leliana, looking cleaner and more put-together than she had recently, offered a small glass vial full of black liquid to Kit. “Magebane. Spend the rest of the day up and about. You need some fresh air.” 

Kit rolled her eyes and flopped back on the bed. Her acts of defiance were pretty pitiable these days, but at least she made the gesture. 

“Please,” Leliana coaxed. “There’s something you’ll want to see outside.” 

“The ruins of the Kirkwall Chantry?” Kit asked.

“No.”

“All those crusty corpses up at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?” 

“No.” 

“Dunno what else I’d want to see right now.” 

“So take the magebane,” said Leliana. “It’ll be a surprise. Everybody likes surprises.”

Kit groaned. “You ever consider having kids, Leliana? You seem to have displaced your maternal instincts in the creepiest possible direction.” 

A long pause. 

For whatever reason, Leliana never forced Kit to do anything. She asked, politely. She gave up if Kit dug her heels in. And she submitted without complaint to all the offensive comments and questions Kit threw her way.

“I thought about having children. I never really _decided_ not to. But it would be difficult at my age, and I don’t regret the way things turned out.” Leliana stared off into the distance for a moment and then shook herself. “Will you please take the magebane?” 

Kit held out her hand and Leliana placed the vial in it. Kit popped the cork and downed the potion in a single swallow, trying not to taste it. Though the (bitter, slightly metallic) taste was nothing to the feel of it: like an amputation, a whole part of herself hacked away. 

“There’s food outside,” said Leliana. “Are you hungry?” 

Kit shrugged. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hungry. Too many potions. 

“Maybe in a little while,” said Leliana. “What about a bath?”

“Yes,” Kit blurted, before she could stop herself. “Please.” 

It was just a hip bath—a great big dish, essentially—but the water was hot, the soap strong, and the lotion smelled like embrium. Throw in a set of clean clothes and she almost felt human by the time she stepped out of the tent. 

And into a familiar setting, a trail carved into the side of a high snowy mountain, a narrow bridge spanning a deep gorge, a fortress overlooking a frozen lake. 

Skyhold. 

Kit stared across the bridge. Had she thought the future was a city across a river, a place she would never reach? She’d been wrong. It was a fortress in the sky, across a bridge whose gate she would never pass.

But inside…

Inside the mages were safe. 

Solas came up beside her, handed her an apple. “You almost seem happy.”

“Why almost? I’m happy.” Kit took a bite of the apple. Crunchy, sweet. A small pleasure, but she’d been clinging to those for a lifetime. “Doubt it will last very long. Any idea what they’ve got planned for me?” 

“I believe that your mage friends will pay us a visit shortly, to check on your welfare.”

“I knew there had to be a reason for Leliana to offer me that bath.” Kit smiled faintly. “Fat lot of good it’ll do them. Took the mages years to make this happen and they think a little soap will change their minds?” 

“You don’t think your friends will be swayed by compassion?” Solas asked.

“They’re not stupid.” Kit took another bite of the apple. “How are you?” 

“Frustrated. This is a costly distraction. Potentially a fatal one.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” 

Solas’s lips thinned. “Are you?” 

“Believe it or not, yes. Back when we were trying to figure out how to escape, I’d planned to stay with the Inquisition.” Kit waved her Marked hand. “If only because of this.” 

“Truly?” 

Kit nodded, crunching away. 

“So why the change of plans? Were you overruled?” 

“No.” Kit shook her head. “I was—remember that first vision in the Fade? When I got the orb? I wasn’t in charge of anything, but I was one of the people working on resettling, asylum. Who’d take us, how many they’d take, what were the costs and dangers associated with travel… So I’d spent a lot of time considering our options. They were all inferior to Skyhold.” 

“And the Inquisition?” 

Kit drew back her arm and launched the apple into the air. It arced up, pitching and spinning, then dropped into the gorge. “Not my problem anymore.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“You know, Solas, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who could tell me I should be saving the world during a weeks-long, drug-induced slumber and really mean it.” 

Solas laughed. 

Just then, the portcullis on the other side of the bridge rose. 

Kit watched, her heart in her mouth, as a small group walked through the gate. With his size and his horns, The Iron Bull was unmistakable… but who else? 

She pressed her fingers to her lips, rocked onto her tiptoes. 

The far portcullis fell. The near one opened. And then they were walking through, backlit by the sharp morning light, Nina and Bits and Theo and Fiona, the qunari at their back—a mercenary _in their employ_ , not a jailor, not a “protector.”

Kit launched herself toward them. She hardly made it two paces before Cullen reached her. He hooked an arm around her waist, so sudden and firm she winded herself.

“Not so close to the gate,” he warned.

Kit dug her heels into the snow, straining against his hold. That didn’t budge him—he was so blighted _strong_ —so she tried a different tactic. She ceased struggling entirely. Without her whole weight pushing against his pull, she fell back against his body, her back crushed against his front. 

“Handsy bastard,” Kit muttered.

Cullen let go with a quickness. 

And Kit ran to Bits, throwing her arms around her friend. Bits squeezed her with a strength that would have done a python credit. Nina came next, and then Fiona… they all seemed to be crying. 

“Give them nothing,” Kit whispered in the hollow space between their linked arms and close-pressed bodies. “Nothing at all.” 

Eventually, if only to get a breath of fresh clean air, they separated. Nina cupped both her hands around Kit’s cheeks and pulled her close, kissed her forehead. 

“Is everyone okay?” Kit asked. “You’re going to make it?” 

“We’ll be fine,” said Fiona. “Don’t worry about us. Worry about yourself.” 

“Good.” Kit felt… so full. Overflowing with gratitude and pride and love.

“Thank you,” said Nina to Leliana. She gestured to the others, motioning them back toward the gate. “We’ve seen what we needed to see.” 

“That’s all?” Leliana sputtered.

“You expected something else?” asked Fiona in her thick, buttery accent. When Leliana began to protest again, Fiona held up her hand, palm out. “We appreciate your cooperation. In return, we will allow you to visit our hostages.” 

One of Leliana’s hands curled into a fist at her side but she managed to sound perfectly polite when she asked, “And will you guarantee safe passage?” 

“Of course.” Nina smiled. “We’ll bring you right back.” 

“This is not a good idea,” Cassandra warned.

“Cassandra has the right of it,” Cullen agreed.  

“Why would we give you an excuse to mistreat your hostage?” Fiona shrugged. “But if you’d rather stay, and take our word that your people are unharmed…” 

“I will come.” 

“Unarmed,” said Bull. “And I’m not budging on that.” 

Leliana handed her bow to Cullen and began stripping away her knives. When Cullen couldn’t hold any more, she started passing them off to Cassandra. 

“No offense, but that was really hot,” said Bull. 

Theo waved as he retreated toward the bridge. Bits blew kisses and Kits blew them back. The portcullis shut behind them and Kit… laughed, so full of joy she couldn’t contain it. 

Whatever happened next— _whatever happened_ —if she paid for the rest of her life, whether it lasted forever or a day, it would be worth it. This success… it was priceless. 

 

***

 

Leliana crossed the bridge but paused when the gate rose and she saw the courtyard beyond. Most of Skyhold's mages—if not all of them—had gathered to witness her arrival. They stood in doorways and leaned out of windows, perched on the ramparts and sat on the low dividing wall, silent and hostile. 

"Nothing to worry about," said Nina, at her side. "We've all had a long talk, and you were expected."

"A talk?" Leliana repeated. Her fingers twitched for all the places where her daggers ought to be. 

"About the alliance you proposed. Most of us were reluctant even to consider it. Why take the risk? We don't need you. We don't want you." 

Leliana took a deep breath. This was a display, meant to intimidate. But they'd only bother if they were willing to make a deal. That was what mattered. 

"But?" Leliana asked, obligingly. 

"But we could use you. That much is true. So here are our terms. You will disband the Inquisition Council. Former Council members will retain an advisory position only. All decisions will be made by Kit. There will be no votes and no appeals. If some accident should impair Kit's ability to serve as Inquisitor, we will immediately and permanently remove the Inquisition from Skyhold. All barracks will be located outside the walls. Neither soldiers nor Templars will be stationed inside the fortress. _Ever_. The Iron Bull will oversee Skyhold defense. He will hire other mercenaries if necessary and they will report to Kit. If Kit is unavailable, then to the most senior Enchanter.” 

"And in return?" Leliana asked. 

"And in return nothing," Nina replied. "You save face. The Inquisition survives. That's all. You can accept our terms or reject them. They will not change, not in the slightest particular. Now. The Iron Bull will take you to the dungeon. Talk to Josephine. Visit our other hostages. Be aware that each and every one of them will suffer any horrors that you visit upon Kit." 

Nina headed toward the Great Hall. That left Leliana alone, though the crowd didn't disperse. Didn't even stir. The Iron Bull led her down the stairs and into the damp dungeon cells. Leliana steeled herself, but the mages had not been cruel. The Skyhold hostages had been locked up... along with a variety of comfortable furniture, privacy screens, clothing and books. Even the Templars. Mother Giselle had a small shrine in her cell.

Seeing Josephine behind bars still made Leliana want to cut her way out of Skyhold, to leave a trail of bodies in her wake, even though her friend wore clean clothes and a broad, hopeful grin.

Leliana reined in her anger. She'd come to see a friend, but also the Inquisition's chief diplomat. She'd start by asking Josephine how she thought they should proceed.

 


	45. fair enough

She did not want to hear the details. When Nina tried to talk over her, Bits to shake her, Kit shouted, “How could you!” and “I can’t believe you!” and finally she turned her back on them—traitors, blind and stupid, if they had any idea what she’d _been through_ to get them this far, all the heartache and humiliation—

She turned from her exasperated friends see the little Inquisition party staring at her with open-mouthed dismay, all three Council members mournful as hounds with deep circles under their eyes.

Kit’s fingers twitched. If she were quick enough, she could just kill them all. Half of them, more realistically. Stop this travesty of an alliance before they got their grasping claws back on Skyhold. 

She shook the sparks from her fingers and stormed off, instead. It was like she'd been running on one of those wheels built for rodents, going going _going_ and never getting anywhere. 

She took the narrow mountain trail past the Skyhold bridge, following the curve of the mountain, watching her feet and not the view. Eventually she reached a set of crumbling stairs, half-buried in snow, that led to an abandoned watchtower. 

Kit picked her way through the debris carefully, and then, not-so-carefully, climbed up a collapsed bit of roof to perch on the section that remained intact. The icy wind bit right through her light clothing, she had no food or water, her feet were wet… 

She didn’t even consider leaving. 

She had no idea what to do. No idea what came next. She’d done her best, given all she had. She’d pushed herself to the breaking point and past it. But she had failed, all her efforts had come to nothing, and she didn’t have it in her to try again.

And they’d expect it of her. She hadn’t listened to a word her friends said, but she understood _that_ much. 

A light, lilting voice—Leliana’s—called, “Inquisitor?” 

Kit leaned over the side of the roof. The Spymaster stood in the snow, head uptilted, scarf wrapped securely around her head and neck, her leather boots soaked up to the knees. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re needed in the War Room,” said Leliana. “There is much to be done.” 

She didn’t even have the energy to fight. This morning, yesterday, she’d clung to the last dregs of her defiance. Now the cup was dry. Why resist? What was the point? 

“I’ll be right down,” Kit called. She slid down the collapsed bit of roof, went down on all fours to navigate the rubble piles, finally reached the crumbling stairway where Leliana waited. 

“I'm glad you took a bit of time for yourself,” Leliana said, keeping close to her side, footfalls eerily silent on the snow. “Have you thought about—”

“No,” said Kit. 

“When you're ready then,” said Leliana. "I will be ready to assist."  

Kit rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. They finished the walk in silence. The clearing by the bridge was peaceful and deserted; the Inquisition camp already dismantled. Bile rose in her throat as she passed through the first gate. Back in this place. With these people. Same as before only they’d dug their trenches deeper. 

Leliana led the way through the great hall, down the corridor past Josephine’s office—all the furniture gone, for some reason—and through the thick doors at the end. 

Cassandra leaned against a wall with her arms folded over her chest, sleek and discontented. Josephine stood by the table, board propped on one arm and pen at the ready, only the sallow cast to her skin—never enough light in a dungeon—as evidence of her incarceration. Cullen bent over the map, picking at a stain with a fingernail. He didn’t look up when the door opened, so his concentration was at least partially faked. 

“Our Inquisitor has arrived,” said Leliana. “We can begin.” 

“I have tried to prioritize the most pressing issues,” said Josephine. “But you may wish to review all the matters currently waiting for your attention. I am, of course, at your disposal.” 

Kit glanced right and left. She wasn’t entirely sure, but that didn’t seem like a general ‘you’, a plural ‘you’. It seemed more like Josephine had been talking to her alone. 

Maybe it was a diplomatic way of telling her she’d need to put in extra hours if she wanted to keep up with the other Council members? With five people here instead of four, she might wield some influence as a tiebreaker. 

How often did the Council disagree? She had no idea. 

“Thank you,” said Kit, uncertainly. 

“We’ve been contacted by a man who calls himself ‘Fairbanks,’ who says he has information of value,” said Josephine. “He offers a trade: the information in exchange for the Inquisition’s help in eliminating a dangerous rebel band calling themselves the Freemen of the Dales. These rebels have been sighted all over the Emerald Graves, where they’ve caused significant problems for Orlesian troops.” Josephine looked up from her board. “I’m not sure whether Fairbanks has any information of value, but uprooting these Freemen could help us gain favor with the Orlesian court. Empress Celene has been reluctant to acknowledge us.” 

“I can send a crow to divert some of the troops returning from Adamant to the Emerald Graves,” said Cullen. “I doubt these ‘Freemen’ will pose a challenge after facing down demons and possessed Grey Wardens.”

“Whereas I recommend caution,” countered Leliana. “We should not commit ourselves openly before we understand the whole situation. I could send agents to join Fairbanks’s resistance. They’ll uncover the information that he’s trying to withhold.” 

“But do we have time to let your agents work?” Cassandra asked. “We know that Corypheus has designs on Celene. Now that he’s lost the Grey Wardens, I imagine that he’ll move quickly to re-establish a base of power.” 

“This is true,” said Josephine. “Orlais should be our priority. If Corypheus had all the resources of the Empire at his command… I dread to think what he could accomplish.” 

“Inquisitor?” Leliana prompted. 

Kit blinked. Cullen’s suggestion seemed more efficient, Leliana’s smarter but riskier. “I don’t know… do I have to vote first?” 

“There are, ah, no votes,” said Josephine.

“No votes?” Kit raised her eyebrows. “So how do you decide?” 

The Council members glanced uneasily at one another. 

“We don’t,” said Cullen, flatly. “ _You_ do.”

“Me?” Kit repeated. “Like… just me?” 

“We are here to offer advice,” said Leliana. “No more than that.” 

Kit blinked. “And you _agreed_ to this?” 

They all nodded.

Kit’s voice climbed up an octave. “Are you _crazy_?” 

“I think…” Josephine trailed off. She coughed, then—in a wavering, diffident tone—said, “As your diplomatic advisor, may I suggest that asking us if we are crazy is… not helpful?”

“Yeah. Fair enough.” Kit stared blankly at the war table and rubbed at her temple. This couldn’t be real. “Could someone explain this deal you made?”  

“You now command the Inquisition,” Cassandra answered, more clipped than usual. “You command the rebel mages. You command the Templars. If you decide to plunge all of Thedas into chaos with your radical notions, we can do nothing more than quit.”

Kit frowned. She did not see the catch. There had to be a catch. 

“So if I ordered you, like, to clear out the forge and turn it into a workshop for building dollhouses instead…?” Kit asked. 

Cassandra’s brows flattened. “Then we’d have very ill-equipped soldiers and very happy children.” 

“What if I decided to execute all the Templars?” 

Cullen went white. 

“Some would flee, of course,” said Leliana. “But I could help you come up with a plan to take them by surprise. My scouts would track down those who escaped. None would escape your command.”

Kit shook her head. This was insane. _Insane_. 

“About Fairbanks?” Josephine suggested. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

“Fairbanks,” Kit repeated. “I think I’ll go talk to him myself.” 

Cullen tensed. “The Emerald Graves are very dangerous.”

There. Finally. “So I’m not allowed to leave Skyhold?” 

“Of course you are.” He dropped his gaze and hunched. That had been his habit, with a few variations, since they’d left Adamant. That was how she’d known, when he grabbed her by the gate, that falling into his arms would be the fastest way to freedom. He’d hovered through the whole long journey—he was a champion hoverer—but wouldn’t speak to her, hardly looked at her. 

She didn’t know what to make of it. Guilt? Resentment? He didn’t seem angry. Nor affectionate, nor any other emotion she could name and understand. It was like he was a stranger again. 

“Do as you wish,” he finished. 

“I wish to get out of here,” said Kit.

Truer words had never been spoken. 

 


	46. do I not bleed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stupid Trespasser. Updates from the fics I follow have been so slow I had to go and write more of this one. Enjoy a long-overdue confrontation.
> 
> No spoilers but: the Trespasser plot segues really nicely with this fic, so I'll be heading in that direction. I'll give plenty of warning before I move into Trespasser territory though, and it won't be for a while.

Kit counted off the tasks awaiting her on her fingers. She’d have a long, unpleasant afternoon ahead. Offering apologies, making peace, packing. Ugh. 

She found Nina first, reading in the library. Nina closed the book over her index finger when Kit approached, her expression carefully blank.

“I’m sorry,” said Kit. “I should have listened.” 

Nina sighed. “Don’t apologize. You asked us not to worry about your feelings, so we didn’t. Not one of us stopped to ask what it would be like for you, told to embrace your jailers after being kept like chattel for weeks.” 

“That’s not the problem. I’m just… feeling frayed,” said Kit. “The siege was awful. I’ve never seen anything like it, so many people dying so quickly. And then we fell into the Fade.”

Nina’s eyes widened. “Fell… not a dream, then? In the flesh?” 

“Into a region ruled by a nightmare demon,” Kit confirmed. “I saw Glynnis, or something that looked like her. But I knew you’d taken Skyhold by then, and it was the only thing that kept me sane.” 

“Dear girl.” Nina set the book aside. “I think this will be best for all of us. I wouldn’t have fought for it otherwise. But I’m glad to have you back. We _are_ here for you.” 

“I know you are.” Kit sank into the chair, drew her legs up and folded them. “So what’s the plan?”

“Disband the Circle,” answered Nina. “Make sure that by the time this war is over, there’s a new system in place, that it’ll hold up to a bit of prodding.”

“All right,” said Kit.

“We still belong to the Inquisition,” said Nina. “But now that means that we belong to _you_. Fiona and I have some ideas…”

“Wait.” Kit held up her hand. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.” 

Nina raised her eyebrows. 

“Can you have all the mages assemble in the great hall tomorrow morning? Early. I’m going to be leaving for the Emerald Graves tomorrow and I’d like to set out before noon.” 

Nina nodded. “Of course.” 

“Thank you.” Kit stretched and stood. “And now I have even more to prepare before I go.” 

She made a similar apology to Bits, just as readily accepted, and then braced herself for a more unpleasant task. Krem hailed her on her way to Cullen’s office and she detoured toward The Iron Bull’s lieutenant with relief. 

“Boss told me you’re leaving in the morning,” said Krem.

Kit blinked. How’d he find out? She’d only decided herself an hour ago.

“Ben-Hassrath agent?” Krem said. “Thought he’d mentioned. Good with information.” 

“Apparently I had not appreciated the full extent of his skills.”

“He says I should go with you,” said Krem. “Thinks you need a good shield.” 

“All right.” 

“That’s it?” Krem narrowed his eyes. “No complaints?”

“Why would I complain?” 

“I don’t know. Clients usually complain.” 

“I’ll complain plenty,” Kit promised. “Later, when we’re in the middle of nowhere and you’re stuck listening. It’ll be miserable.” 

“Appreciate the reassurance.” His easy, lopsided smile flashed across his face. “Puts my mind at ease.”

“I’ve got a thing in the morning, just came up,” Kit said. “Would you mind rounding up a couple more people to come along?” 

“I can do that. Who?” 

Kit shrugged. “Surprise me.”

“Surprise you,” Krem repeated, in a tone of gentle rebuke. _You’re doing it wrong_ , that tone said. _Please reconsider_.

“I like surprises,” Kit insisted. “Also, taking over hasn’t exactly made me popular with the Inquisition inner circle. I don’t want to know who refused to come, so… surprise me.” 

“Oh,” said Krem. “I’ll take care of it.” 

“Thanks.” 

 

***

 

A knock at the door. Not solid enough to be a soldier. 

Cullen looked up. Called out, “Come in!” 

The door opened and Kit sauntered in. She’d left off her coat and wore a thick sweater of soft wool, unraveling around the cuffs, threadbare trousers that molded to her every curve. Her hair had begun to unwind from its braid, wispy tendrils curling at her temples and nape. 

He wondered if she couldn’t afford better—possible; he’d have a word with the quartermaster—or if she just liked dressing as though… the second he asked the question, he knew the answer. _As though she were going to spend the rest of the day in her workshop_. Carving with her enchanted blade, making glass with conjured fire.

Was she playacting or was this how she really saw herself? He had no idea how to separate truth from lies where she was concerned.

Kit paused, one hand on her cocked hip, surveying the room. The last time she’d been here—Maker, the last time she’d been here, she’d kissed him. Clung to him with a desperation that he’d been too eager to question. More fool he.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I wanted to speak with you.” 

“Oh?” She started to cross her arms and then, with obvious effort, held them loose at her sides. “Go ahead. I’m listening.” 

Cullen cleared his throat, began his prepared speech. “I have decided to resign. I can help you select a replacement, and would be willing to stay long enough to smooth the transition. Or to leave immediately and let you oversee the rest yourself. Whatever you’d prefer.” 

“Okay,” she said, in an odd voice. Stiff, unnatural. “That’s fine.” 

He flicked a glance at her, but couldn’t read any subtleties through the deep circles under her eyes, the dull skin and weary posture. The strain of a long journey and poor handling; his fault. 

“Which would you prefer?” he asked.

She rubbed at her forehead. “Can I think about it? I’m still wrapping my head around things. I mean—do you have somewhere to be?” 

“Not yet. I could use some time to settle my own affairs.”

“That’s good.” Kit nodded. “By the time I’m back from the Emerald Graves, then.” 

She turned to go.

“Kit?” he asked. 

She paused but didn’t look back. “Yeah?” 

He stood. “You haven’t told me why you came. Did you need something?” 

“Doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“You might let me be the judge of that.” 

“I was going to ask if there was anything I could do to make it easier for us to work together, less weird,” said Kit, talking over her shoulder, easing toward the door. “So. Doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“Ah. That’s… thoughtful, but no.” Cullen sighed, dropped his formal posture. “I had thought we could make common cause, before. If I stood some chance of bringing balance to your more extreme views… But I won't overestimate my abilities.”

"You won't work for a mage, you mean."

"Is that what you believe?"

The question threw her. He watched a kaleidoscope of emotions flicker across her face and some of them--the hurt, the confusion--had him gripping his desk with white knuckles, to stop himself from reaching out to her.

But then her expression settled into mulish stubbornness. "Whatever," she said, turning again to leave.

Something inside of him snapped at her flippancy.

"What you did was selfish," he said bluntly. "You put all of Thedas at risk so you could gain advantage for a few--"

"Advantage?" She whirled on him. "Freedom. Rights. No one was going to give them to us."

"You brought me to Loghain," Cullen returned, meeting her fury with his own. "You knew what was at stake. You watched as we threw all our people, all our resources at Adamant. For once, the Inquisition was exactly what you told us we should be. We fought because it was the right thing to do, without counting the cost to ourselves. And that's when you struck."

Her eyes dropped. Apparently she did know shame. Too little and too late, but it was there.

She spoke in a small voice. "I'd planned to stay with the Inquisition, you know."

"Yes, we all heard." Cullen couldn't keep the snarl out of his voice. "All the torture and mistreatment you'd suffer, always for the benefit of--" _the mages_. But he didn't say it. His jealousy was an ugly thing and didn't need an airing. 

"That's not what I meant." She shivered, though, huddling in on herself. After a pause, she continued. "I've risked my life too, you know. I thought that first Rift would kill me. And again at Haven--I thought I was going to die. I think I did die. But I woke up and I kept fighting--I pulled my weight at Adamant, didn't I?" 

"What you give with one hand you take with the other," he said quietly. "What should I make of that, Inquisitor?"

"Fine. Maybe I'm as bad as you--"

Cullen flinched.

Kit jerked her chin, as though she'd taken a punch. "As bad as the Chantry, I mean. The Templars. I probably am. But if that's the extent of it, you're an absolute fucking hypocrite if you quit." 

He sucked in a sharp breath. "It's not that simple."

It hung between them, thick in the air: the kiss, the night before Adamant. He couldn't decide if he hated her or loved her, which meant he couldn't serve her. He'd trip over his feelings.

"It kind of is, though." She shrugged. "Do what you want. If you stay, I'll try to make it easy. If you go"--her voice broke, then hardened--"If you go, I've got nothing else to say."

She slammed the door on her way out.

Cullen rubbed the hollow ache in his chest. She had betrayed him, played him for a fool. So why did he feel ashamed?

Automatically, he reached for the bottom drawer of his desk, picked up the box. He  opened the lid and stared at the glowing blue bottle inside with a gnawing hunger, fresh as the early days, when he'd first quit.

Everything had been simple when he was a Templar. He'd known his place. He'd followed the rules and that had been enough. 

With a quick, convulsive motion he hurled the box at his wall. It splintered, the glass inside shattering.  

No. Nothing had ever been simple. It had only seemed that way, and only because he wanted it to. Every time he went searching for clarity, he found only delusion. Every time he felt like he’d reached solid ground, it turned to quicksand beneath him. 

He stumbled blindly from cause to cause and learned nothing. He ruined everything that he touched. 

It was time—past time—to _give up_. 


	47. declaration of intent

Cullen leaned in the arched doorway that led from the great hall through to Josephine’s office and the War Room. He held his arms crossed over his chest, though he’d have rather had one hand on the pommel of his sword, and tried to ignore the death glares that a seemingly random assortment of mages shot his way.

Kit had called them all here, and so they came. Not that they had a choice. Would they keep pulling at the leash, now that she held it? It might be hard to break the habit of hating anyone with enough power to tell them what to do. 

Leliana slipped up from behind him and mirrored his pose, leaning against the opposite side of the archway. 

“I see you’re curious, too,” she said. 

“None of them are wearing robes,” he complained. “What if they want to roam the streets like this? You couldn’t tell who was a mage and who wasn’t until they started casting spells.” 

“I imagine they’d quite enjoy that, yes,” Leliana agreed. 

“You don’t have to be so helpful, you know,” he continued. “You could counsel _against_ killing all the Templars before telling her how she might go about it.” 

“Or I could leave,” Leliana said tartly. “And then I wouldn’t have to do anything at all. Keep my hands clean. Wouldn’t that be nice?” 

“This isn’t the organization I joined anymore,” Cullen said. “How could it be? The Inquisition started with the Divine; it’s been handed to a woman who doesn’t believe in the Maker.”

“She’s arrived.” Leliana nodded into the great hall, where Kit and Bits were slowly scooting a heavy table from the edge of the room into the middle. 

It was too heavy for them. He ought to offer his assistance. Though Kit would doubtless object—for what reason he couldn’t imagine, but the objection was a certainty—and he’d have to wade through a sea of mages to reach her. 

“If she wants massacres, I’ll give her massacres,” said Leliana. “But I don’t think she will.” 

Cullen snorted. “Misplaced confidence.” 

“Faith,” said Leliana. “Do you have any idea how long it would have taken my agents to discover the information that the nightmare demon revealed to us in the Fade? Months, maybe years, and only the very best of them would have any chance of success. Her deepest fears, memories so powerful that she’s blocked them out. I submitted to the Maker's will and he gave me information. Quite the appropriate gift, don’t you think?” 

“I don’t think demons do the Maker’s work, Leliana,” Cullen said dryly. “In fact, I’m sure it’s heresy even to suggest it.” 

“The Chantry we knew was destroyed with the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and so were its heresies,” said Leliana. “I’ll take the information and the Inquisitor.”

Kit climbed on top of the table. She was dressed for travel—headed for the Emerald Graves—in knee-high boots and trousers, a leather vest over a thin silk shirt and a white scarf wrapped around her neck that fluttered as she breathed. She spread her legs a bit and rocked, testing the stability of the table. Apparently judging it sound, she drew herself up to her full height and cast a spear of golden light across the great hall. 

The murmuring of the crowd died down as the assembled mages ended conversations and turned to listen. 

“Good morning!” she called. “Thank you for coming!” 

A few of the mages called ‘hello!’ right back at her and got a grin in return. Kit seemed perfectly at ease with the attention, undaunted. No nerves. 

“For those of you who don’t know me,” she continued, “I’m Katherine Trevelyan and I’m your new all-powerful overlord.” 

Some of the mages laughed nervously. Some of them… just looked nervous. 

“I know that you want to hear about how we’re going to get rid of Circles, and we are”—a brief eruption of cheers; Kit silenced it by raising he arm, palm outward—“But that comes later. We are going to start building a new system here and now, and we are starting with _ourselves_. We all know how it used to work, right? A few lucky apprentices got mentors and special attention, and they grew up into those few lucky Enchanters who got to work outside the Circle, who had access to a whole host of privileges and freedoms that most mages never knew.”

An angry muttering spread through the crowd.

“And why fight for everyone else when you’ve got what you want, right?” Kit called

The whole room rumbled with discontent.

“Yeah, yeah, you can all guess how I know this,” Kit continued. “I had a nice life… for a mage. I traveled. I visited family. Templars left me alone, picked on low value targets instead. I saw worse every day and let me tell you, gratitude mixed with fear can be a powerful motivator.” 

Gratitude mixed with fear. He remembered Neria Surana, talented and confident, Irving’s favorite. Everyone knew she was special, everyone knew she had a great future ahead. But one mistake, trusting the wrong friend, and she’d only narrowly escaped being made Tranquil.

If not for Duncan the Grey Warden, the Hero of Ferelden would be sorting old scrolls in a library right now with a brand on her forehead. Maybe organizing tissue samples like Helisima… or she’d be dead, and _he’d_ be dead, because if Uldred hadn’t killed them the the Blight would have. 

The noises died down; a bad sign, Cullen thought. Seeing Kit standing above them, hearing her spell it all out so clearly made them uneasy.

“So let’s not do that!” Kit shouted. 

The angry tension in the audience released; the whole atmosphere turned to surprise. 

“The rebellion has been secretive because it had to be. The new order will be _transparent_. All major decisions will be put to a vote. Voting will be mandatory; anyone who shirks will face disciplinary action.”

That got a mixed reception, but an alert one. The audience was engaged.

“We are going to elect a council to oversee administration, making and enforcing rules, education—all of our day to day business. Six members to the council. The position is temporary. I will set the term at one year; if you want to change the rules, you can vote on it. First election will be in one month.”

Noise swelled up from the crowd again, excited this time. 

“My name will _not_ go in the hat. We need a model that can be duplicated, not a glorious leader,” Kit continued. “Anyone else who wants a seat had better hustle. The Council’s first job will be to draw up a code of laws so that we can govern ourselves here in Skyhold. It will be put to the vote. After that—do you hear me? _After_ —we can start talking about what post-Circle life will look like.” 

Grumbling again.

“Those are all the rules I’m going to make,” said Kit. “Try to remember that if we want to live freely anywhere in Thedas other than Skyhold, some poor mage is going to have to humbly petition Alistair or Celene or some other King or Queen for the favor. Try to imagine you have the shit job of convincing a paranoid monarch to integrate mages into the general populace. If you’re wondering what that’s like, explain your plan to a Templar and see how long it takes him to start laughing.”

That got a few laughs.

“If you can make it more than a minute, you might be on the right track.” 

Louder laughs. 

“Okay, that’s it. I’m going to have to live by these rules too, so please don’t fuck it up.” 

Kit hopped down from the table. She was immediately swarmed.

“Hmm.” Leliana elbowed him. “How long did it take you to start laughing at her plan?” 

“I never laughed.”

“Because you’re too serious? Or… hmm…” Leliana tapped her index finger to her lips. “Could it be something else?” 

Leliana retreated to Josephine’s office. Cullen caught sight of Rylen hovering by the door to the courtyard, alert like any good soldier who found himself in hostile territory would be. 

And where was Cassandra?

 

 


	48. graves beneath the green

Kit tore a flowering vine from a rocky outcropping wet with dew and fuzzy with moss. She stripped the leaves and braided the vine into the flower chain she’d been working on for the past hour. Alternating orange and red flowers, brilliant as anything she’d ever seen. 

The _colors_ here. Greens so vivid they made her eyes ache. Light so cool and pale that every hour of the day felt like dawn, a world constantly on the verge of waking up, of becoming. 

The Emerald Graves were littered with tombstones but being here still filled her heart with hope.

She found another vine, finished her chain, and knotted the ends together. So pretty. With a grin, she trotted it over to Dorian and settled it over his head.  

“Look how handsome you are!”

“I _know_.” He reached up and resettled the crown of flowers. 

“You know we’re being watched,” said Krem. “Right now, someone is running back to this Fairbanks fellow and telling him all about the Inquisitor’s flower fetish.” 

“What’s that?” said Kit. “Did you say you wanted one, too?” 

“No.”

“I’ll get started right now.” Kit snagged several feet of arbor blossom from a tree trunk as they passed. “White and purple, do you think? You’d look very regal.” 

“ _No_ ,” repeated Krem.

“How about you, Varric?” Kit asked.

“I like regal,” the dwarf replied. 

“You’re such a good sport.” Kit set about stripping the leaves from the arbor blossom vine, adding small, drooping violets to the chain as they moved along. “Actually, I’m surprised you decided to come along. I know you’re unhappy with me.” 

Varric shrugged. “Yeah, well. I thought you were like Anders. And Anders—nothing was ever good enough for him, you know? He was in love with an idea. By the end I don’t think he even _saw_ the people standing in his way.” 

“And you’re still weeping over those bandits we killed about a mile back?” Kit asked. “Tender-hearted and insightful master of the written word, as you are, you must have looked right through to each one’s soul before firing your crossbow.” 

“Stop it.” He punched her lightly in the arm. “I’m just saying, I understand you better now. And, _tender hearted and insightful master of the written word as I am_ , that makes a difference.” 

Kit placed her flower crown on Varric’s head and beamed. “You have such nice red hair, Varric. Not red, exactly. More strawberry blond. I’m surprised the Iron Bull hasn’t made a move, yet.” 

Krem began coughing into his closed fist. 

“Oooh, got you to laugh,” Kit called out in a singsong voice. “That’s one point to me. Five points and I’m going to cover you in flowers.” 

It was so nice to be away from Skyhold. From the army and the expedition force and the tug-of-war that had been wearing her ragged. Kit took a deep breath of the thick, scented air—loam and rain and the sharp scent of chlorophyll—and…

Quickly cast a barrier over the whole group.

“Anyone else see what I see?” she asked quietly, jerking her chin in the direction of an archer lurking amongst the undergrowth, arrow nocked in her bow.

“She’s been pacing us for a few minutes now,” said Krem. “We’ve almost reached the hideout.”

Indeed, soon a second archer joined the first. A few minutes after _that_ , a man in flexible leather armor dropped from the overhanging branches of a tree and, hands resting lightly on the hilts of his daggers, said, “Welcome to the Graves. Fairbanks is expecting you.” 

“He did issue an _invitation_ ,” Kit said pointedly. 

The rogue grinned. “And sent his finest escort. This way. You’d likely get lost without a guide.” 

He led them into a network of ancient ruins carved right into the rock. Walls of dressed stone and finely carved archways partitioned and connected a spreading maze of canyons and caves. Families huddled around small cookfires fell silent as they passed. Guards lounged by supply caches, chatting amiably, their weapons near to hand. 

A handsome man in tattered doublet and hose waited for them at the end of their journey. He ought to have looked absurd in his ruined finery, but with his proud posture and easy confidence, he cut a rather dashing figure. 

“Greetings, Inquisitor. It is an honor to meet the Herald of Andraste.” He bowed, back straight, very courtly, and spoke Common with a heavy Orlesian accent. “I am called Fairbanks.” 

“Your missive said that you have information we need,” said Kit.

“And I do. But you are guests. Allow us to give you a proper welcome.” Fairbanks gestured to one of the archers. “Set up camp. Have something to eat. When you’re comfortable, we will talk.” 

They were all glad to obey. They washed off the day’s accumulated sweat at a cool, clear stream and ate the freshest, most flavorful food they’d had in weeks: fruit whose intense flavor exploded on the tongue, spicy salad greens, tender meat. 

Fairbanks joined them around the campfire as they were finishing their meal, a bottle of brandy in hand.

“We’re simple people here,” he said, lining up a row of small glasses on the dirt and pouring each one so full it overflowed. “Most of us have lost family. All have lost their homes. I found a few, helped them, found this cave for shelter. Word spread and more came.” 

“And you need our help for what?” Kit asked.

“These so-called ‘Freemen of the Dales’ are mostly deserters from the Imperial army.” Fairbanks began distributing the glasses but paused with Kit’s just out of reach. “What do you think of this civil war?” 

“I think the timing is awfully suspicious,” said Kit.

Fairbanks handed her the glass and sat back with a sigh. “I suppose that the great and grand Inquisitor must worry about who reigns in Val Royaux. But most of us here are farmers, woodsmen. People who’ve never seen the capital and never will. We just want to survive.”

Kit took a sip of the brandy. It burned going down but it had a sweet aftertaste, like cherries drenched in syrup. Not bad. She took another, deeper sip. “So the Freemen are getting in the way of survival?” 

“You have encountered them, I believe. Aggressive bastards, no? They’ve killed a dozen of my people. We’ve tried to fight, but we cannot match their strength. You can.” 

“It’s a sad story, but why should the _Inquisition_ care?” Varric asked. "If we stopped to help every deserving and displaced civilian, we'd never reach the guy at the top." 

“Simple. Because the Freemen are colluding with your enemy,” Fairbanks answered. 

“Which enemy?” Dorian asked. "It's hard to keep track of them all, these days. One goes away and another pops up. Like weeds. Or erections." 

"I—" Fairbanks shut his mouth, cleared his throat, and directed his answer to Kit. “The rogue Templars.” 

Kit bit back a laugh. "You have proof of this?" 

Fairbanks smiled and held out the bottle of brandy. “I do. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend, so let us be friends, yes?”

Kit shrugged and let him refill the glass. 

“Why don’t you tell me a little more about the Inquisition,” Fairbanks suggested. “The tales that reach us are too strange to be true. Dragons and avalanches and miracles.” 

“All true,” said Varric, polishing off his own glass. “What do you want to know?” 

Kit relaxed with a sigh, leaning back on her palm. She was off the hook, at least for the next hour or two. Fairbanks didn’t realize it yet, but he’d just lost control of the conversation. 

***

The brandy bottle was nearly empty by the time Fairbanks ran out of questions for Varric. By then, the fires had burned low. Most of the refugees had retired to their bedrolls and, with a satisfied yawn, Varric soon followed. Then Dorian, then Krem, and when Kit found herself alone with Fairbanks it seemed perfectly natural to scoot around the little fire until they sat next to one another. 

“There is no luxury in our little canyon, but it is safe.” Fairbanks took another deep swallow from the brandy bottle. Someone had come by to pick up the glasses… when? Time had gotten fuzzy a while ago. “Right now, safety is more important for us than comfort. And for me? All the luxuries of life—it is not enough to leave them behind. I am teaching myself not to want them.”

“Wanting poisons the well,” Kit agreed, taking the bottle and lifting it directly to her own lips. “You won’t change anything if, in the back of your mind, you’re just trying to get back all those _advantages_ you once had...” 

“You understand.” Fairbanks reached for the bottle again, but instead of taking it he clasped his two hands around hers. “I confess, I did not expect the _Herald of Andraste_ to be a woman after my own heart.” 

“Forget about the title. It’s stupid. What matters is that I want to help you,” said Kit.  

“And I want to help you,” Fairbanks returned. “Here is the truth. Everything you need to know. I have seen the rogue Templars through the woods. They visit the Freemen bases and leave with crates. Closely guarded, bound in thick steel boxes… I have no proof, but I am certain that the Freemen are smuggling lyrium.” 

“And the Templars are buying,” Kit said grimly. “I’m glad that you contacted us. This is important, more important than you know. We will do everything we can to drive the Freemen out of the Dales. I promise.” 

“And we will aid you however we can. Everything I know about the Dales, about these woods, I will share with you.” 

Kit drew a little closer. “Thank you.”

Gently, he removed the bottle of brandy from her hands and settled it in the dirt, only to reclaim her hands and tug her closer. 

Kit licked her lips. That natural shift from one passion to another ought to have been nice. A relief even, because it was accomplished so smoothly. No obstacles to overcome, no personal demons getting in the way. 

“If you will allow me,” he said, diffident words in an assured, wickedly amused tone. So quintessentially _Orlesian_. 

So why did she wish that he’d spoken, instead, in a clipped Ferelden accent? That he’d been grave instead of amused, halting instead of confident? That the stubble dusting his jaw was gold instead of black, that a scar marred his full lips…

Fairbanks was _everything she wanted in a man_. Brave, full of conviction, a natural leader. And they shared so many of the same opinions, looked at the world in the same way. She ought to be attracted to him; she ought to be _wild_ about him.

So when he dipped his head and kissed her, she kissed him back. Slipped her arms around his shoulders and parted her lips when he teased her with his tongue. He was skilled, responsive, patient.

And she felt _nothing_. Not a damn thing. 

Kit sighed and pulled away.

“Have I offended?” Fairbanks asked, raking his fingers through her hair, settling it around her shoulders. “Do I move too quickly?” 

“No, you’re perfect,” Kit assured him. 

Fairbanks began to laugh. “I have never heard such an extravagant compliment delivered with so little joy.” 

“I am…” She was pining over a man who was no good for her, believed in things she found abhorrent, and couldn’t even tell when a girl had feelings for him. “I’m an idiot.” 

“That is not true.” Fairbanks picked up the bottle of brandy and stood, then offered her his free hand and helped her to her feet. “It’s been a long day. Sleep well and remember that I will be here if you need me… for anything.” 

Kit kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll remember.” 

Her companions didn’t stir when she reached them. Just as well. She undressed quickly and climbed into her bedroll. She'd enjoy these last few hours of peace before she had to tell them that she'd just volunteered to clear out a ring of soldier-smugglers trained by one of the best armies on Thedas who’d had months to learn the lay of the land.

 


	49. mon semblable, mon frere

“Let me get this straight,” said Cullen. He sat in his office, elbows propped on his desk, trying to ignore a throbbing headache. He was not having one of his good days. “The rumors of blood magic were false.” 

“Made up by a group of extremists,” Barris agreed. “To lure us out to the Wending Wood.” 

“So we took the bait…” 

“And soon after we arrived, several mages were found stabbed to death not far from our camp,” Barris continued.

“By  _other_  mages.” 

“Who hoped that the blame would fall on  _us_ , on the Templars and the Inquisition,” Barris confirmed. “They expected us to turn the forest settlements upside down looking for blood mages, engendering hostility in the process. They hoped the locals would jump to conclusions when the bodies were found.” 

“Please tell me you thwarted those expectations.”

Barris nodded. “We took care to be courteous.”

“And the culprits?” 

“Most are dead,” said Barris. “We tracked them to a camp in the Wending Wood. They weren’t interested in talking, let alone facing trial. A few of the younger mages agreed to accompany us to Skyhold… though they refuse to believe that our Inquisitor is a mage.” 

“Kit’s away. You’ll have to take them to Fiona.” Cullen scrubbed his palms over his face. He did not look forward to explaining this to Kit. “You did well. If any of the mages here question your behavior, send them to me. I’ll take care of it.” 

Barris saluted and left. He’d make a good replacement. Level-headed, solid, heart in the right place. The next time Cullen saw Cassandra—where had she been? He hadn’t seen her in days—he’d suggest Barris, ask her opinion.

He stood and stretched, resettled his surcoat over his shoulders before exposing himself to the lash of icy wind on the battlements. A few scouts huddled nearby, chatting. In the courtyard, a mage boy was trying to set a friend’s farts on fire while their keeper tried to calm a pair of girls fighting over a doll. 

Cullen took the stairs down, gave the children a wide berth on his way through the courtyard and crossed the bridge. He followed the trail to the new barracks, lined up along the shore of the frozen lake. Soldiers tucked cards out of sight, dropped their wet laundry as he passed, snapping to attention

A pair of mages in Circle robes, both of them on the young side, had cornered one of his Templars. He veered in that direction, afraid they were already in a tizzy about the skirmish in the Wending Wood. The Templar faced away from him, her helmet dangling from two fingers.

“Well if the Harrowing doesn’t prove anything, what would?” asked one of the mages, a slight woman with Ferelden blond hair.

“Nothing,” said the other, an elf, his arms folded over his chest. “Somehow we can keep our shit together on a fucking  _battlefield_  but the second the war’s over, it’s back to ‘mustn’t upset the mages, they can’t handle it, poor dears.’” 

“That doesn’t prove anything,” snapped the Templar. “Mages are  _supervised_  in the army. They don’t wander off on their own. They sleep where they’re told, eat where they’re told, fight where they’re told.” 

“So if we just need supervision,” said the first mage, “what if we had, sort of, mini-Circles? Like, four or five of us in a house and a Templar living with us. That way there’d be someone around if things went bad, but it wouldn’t feel so much like a prison.” 

“Wouldn’t work,” said the Templar.

“Why not?” asked the Ferelden mage. 

The Templar huffed. “There’s not time enough in the day to explain everything that’s wrong with that idea. It’s stupid. Everything about it is stupid. Now stop bothering me, or—” 

“Or what?” Cullen asked.

The Templar whirled at the sound of Cullen’s voice and blanched. She tugged at his memory, now he could see her face—she had memorable blue eyes, the color of a tropical sea. But when and why? 

She saluted. “Commander.” 

The two mages inched closer to one another, ducked their heads and linked hands.

“Haven,” Cullen blurted. “You spat at the Inquisitor. Right before she sealed the Breach.” 

The Templar’s throat worked as she swallowed. 

“If these two asked for your opinion, you’re welcome to give it, but resorting to threats diminishes all of us,” Cullen told her. “I’ll have a word with your lieutenant. As for you two…” 

He turned to the mages, who shuffled and bumped hips, like a pair of naughty schoolchildren.

“Brave of you to venture down to the barracks.”

They glanced nervously at one another.

“We’re sorry,” said the Ferelden. “We didn’t know if we were allowed, but—”

“The Inquisitor suggested it, and the Templars aren’t allowed inside Skyhold anymore,” Cullen finished. 

They both nodded.

He hadn’t thought the mages would take Kit seriously. But he always expected the worst, didn’t he? It had been a depressingly effective strategy for years now. 

“I can’t ask my Templars to give up their free time—they’ve little enough as it is—but I can have my lieutenants make sure they’re aware of the Inquisitor’s request and ask them to be accommodating, whenever their duties allow.” 

“Oh,” breathed the Ferelden. “Thank you, Commander Cullen!” 

The elf elbowed her in the ribs. 

The Ferelden elbowed the elf right back.

“Stop being a ninny,” whispered the elf.

The Ferelden blushed crimson. 

Cullen sighed. Not this again. 

“It’s the least we can do.” He shifted his weight, ready to move on, then thought better of it. “And—if you want my opinion—a ‘mini Circle’ really  _is_  a terrible idea.” 

“No kidding,” drawled the elf. 

A smile tugged at Cullen’s mouth.

“Why?” asked the Ferelden. 

“Templars have to maintain an emotional distance from their charges,” he answered. “Otherwise they can’t be trusted to carry out their duties.” 

“But that’s  _not true_ ,” countered the girl. “A Templar who really wants what’s best for a mage  _can_  be a friend. Because we’d want the  _same thing_. I don’t  _want_  to be possessed, you know. If I really did turn into an… abomination, a real friend  _would_  kill me. Because I wouldn’t be  _me_  anymore.” 

Cullen opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong, then made himself consider what she’d said. Was she naive? Yes. Could he think of exceptions? He’d  _met_  one. Her idea was frankly ridiculous. But…

“I hadn’t thought about it that way before,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

The Ferelden mage blushed harder and wobbled on her feet a little, which Cullen took as his cue to leave. 

The mages here were not perfect. They made mistakes, grave ones. They'd sold themselves to Tevinter in a panic. Seizing Skyhold while Corypheus roamed free had been dangerously selfish. But they were not framing Templars for murder, like the fanatics in the Wending Wood. The Skyhold mages had taken half a dozen Templars hostage after seizing the fortress and they hadn’t mistreated a single one. If they were angry—no, not ‘if’, they  _were_  angry—they didn’t let that anger rule them.

There was an opportunity here. Likely as not to be squandered, but it was real. 

He found Ser Balon in a work crew, laying the foundation for a new barracks building. The knight stepped aside when called, saluted.

“Commander.” 

“At ease.” Cullen gestured for Ser Balon to follow him down to the lake. He didn’t want any eavesdroppers for the conversation they were about to have. 

See Balon dragged his arm across his forehead, swiping away a thick sheen of sweat, and kept pace at Cullen’s side. 

“I asked you to investigate the circumstances surrounding the mage Philip’s transformation into an abomination,” Cullen began.

“You did, Commander. I’ve almost finished my report.” 

“I asked you finish the report before we left for Adamant. Is there a reason for the delay?” 

“There is.” Ser Balon clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at his feet. “My findings were… somewhat shocking. I wanted to be certain of my information before I made any untoward accusations.” 

“What have you learned?”

“Philip had a pretty bad time in the Ansburg Circle. If the mages I spoke to are to be believed”—Ser Balon grimaced—“and I think they are, unfortunately, Philip was abused as a child by a Templar with unnatural tastes. This went on for several years and, as a result, he was… not what you would call a good candidate for the Harrowing. I’ve seen similar cases—they never make it.” 

Cullen nodded. He had, too, and they didn't. 

“I guess there was talk about making him Tranquil. Some of the senior enchanters fought for him, but it was a losing battle. Then Kirkwall happened. The Circles revolted and Philip escaped the brand. He traveled with the other Ansburg mages to Redcliffe, but apparently they lost a lot of their own on the way south. Most of his friends died.”

“So he’d been on the edge for years,” said Cullen. “And getting worse, without the support he'd relied on.”

Ser Balon nodded. “Lady Vivienne took an interest in Philip a few days before the incident, asked a lot of questions. Then she set up some nasty surprises. The worst of them, and the one I can  _prove_ , is that she found a man who looked like the Templar who’d abused Philip—a civilian—dressed him up in Templar armor and paid him to follow Philip around for a few days.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen whispered. 

Ser Balon nodded. “Ugly stuff.” 

“You were right to be careful. The report must be  _unassailable_. Check every fact twice, then check it again. Be thorough, be precise—answer every question before it's asked. And don’t let anyone else see it.”

Ser Balon saluted. 

“That’s all,” said Cullen. “You’ve done well.” 

Ser Balon returned to his work crew. Cullen stood by the lake, trying to collect himself. He’d heard so many variations on the same story. Horrors begat horrors, on and on without end. 

And yet he still had it in him to be shocked. 

A scout intercepted him on his way back across the bridge into Skyhold. She handed him a scroll sealed with black wax. “From the Nightingale, Ser.”

“Thank you.” He waved her away and cracked the wax, unrolling the parchment. At the top, a single line in Leliana’s handwriting:  _We need to talk—L_. Two dabs of glue attached a small slip of paper to the larger sheet, just the size to slot into the canisters hanging from her messenger ravens’ legs. He recognized Kit’s handwriting, the message necessarily brief:  _Corypheus has a Templar lieutenant smuggling lyrium through the Graves. Name’s Samson. Gather info?—K_.

The Frostbacks fell away. For a single, mad moment he could feel the Kirkwall sun burning his nose. Heavy plate and thick wool suffocating him, back aching from standing hour after hour in the Gallows, queasy from the scent of rotting garbage and seawater. 

Samson had acted according to his conscience and lost everything. Even, in the end, his conscience. Cullen had watched it happen, understood better than he wanted to. 

"I used to think I was looking into a mirror every time I saw you," Cullen murmured. The thought had terrified him for years. "What if I was right?" 

 

 


	50. From bad to worse

It looked like a couple of guys. Two or three of the Freemen that seemed to lurk in every nook and cranny like dust bunnies. And the Inquisition was just sweeping through, whisk, whisk, whisk, leaving things… well, not so much sparkling clean as a bloody disgusting mess. Trees festooned with entrails. Eau de colon.

“Eau de colon,” said Kit. “Get it? Because we’re in Orlais?”

“Not _now_ ,” said Krem. “They’ll hear us.”

Kit sighed and let her staff seesaw back and forth in the cradle of her fingers. She was getting to the point where killing a couple of people seemed like… not a big deal. Nothing to be scared of, certainly. Poor guys didn’t stand a chance.

“Dorian center, Varric right, Kit left,” said Krem. “On my count. Three… two… _one_.”

Kit lobbed fireballs at her target. He died before Krem even reached the knot of rebels, shield at the ready. One more corner of the Emerald Graves… not-tidied.

“Shit!” yelled Krem, wheeling right. They’d descended into a gully, uneven rock walls to either side, and it curved around ahead of them. “This is about to get ugly!”

Dorian leapt onto the supply cart that the dead Freemen had been unloading. He swept his staff in a wide arc, flooding the gully with fear magic that set Kit’s stomach flying to her throat even at a twenty-foot remove. A knot of sword-wielding Freemen scattered, their advance broken. “ _Vishante kaffas_! Two… six… may I propose a _retreat_?!”

Kit threw up an ice wall. That would buy them a few seconds, at least. “Krem?”

“They’ll give chase,” said Krem. “At least we’ve got a bottleneck here.”

“Dorian, ice?”

Dorian nodded. “Ice.”

With Krem in the lead, they slowly fought their way deeper into the gully. Krem’s spatial awareness combined with two mages tag-teaming all their opponents with ice magic kept them from being overwhelmed; Varric did most of the real damage. They finally reached a cave. A spacious, dimly-lit cave _full of Freemen_. So many Freemen. Maybe _all_ the Freemen.

“Do you see that woman in a hat?” Varric shouted. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”

“If you think you’re seeing a revered mother in typically ugly hat, then yes!” Dorian returned.

“I’m not killing a revered mother!” shouted Varric.

“I’ve got the revered mother!” called Kit.

All three of her companions found a way to pause their life and death struggles and boggle at her.

“And I hope she’s not just mumming, too!” Kit added, bouncing a thread of lightning from an archer aiming for Varric onto the cleric.

“Magic was made to _serve_ man, not rule over him!” cried the woman, an expressive tremble to her voice. She’d delivered sermons, no question.

And she was crafty, too. She kept dodging amongst the stalactites and stalagmites, using the ancient rock formations as a shield and darting to a new hiding spot when one began to crumble.

“I will serve you so much magic, lady!” Kit circled the revered mother with ice wards and advanced at an angle, keeping her back to the cave wall. “I will serve until you are _choking_ on it!”

“Kit, duck!” Krem shouted.

Kit dropped just in time to miss a crossbow bolt, chipping the rock of the cave wall instead of tearing her throat. She crawled forward, her staff dragging along the floor, grit on her palms, and locked eyes with the revered mother… also on her hands and knees, but trapped by one of Kit’s ice wards, caught mid-sneak.

Kit froze the woman and then shattered her to pieces with a quick force blast.

She’d fantasized about killing a revered mother for almost as long as she could remember. Sometimes dreams really did come true. In a gross and oddly unsatisfying way, to be sure, but true.

The rest was clean up. Without numbers on their side, the Freemen were easy enough to cut down. A few hostages hollered from a prison cell cut right into the cave wall. Kit fished the key out of the revered mother’s pocket, because nobody else wanted to touch her remains, and set them free.

Then she began sorting through the papers and valuables stored in the cave—a treasure trove of both.

“What is going on here?” she wondered. “Was she holding these people to _sell_?”

“You should see this, Pepper,” said Varric.

Kit followed his voice. He was sitting in front of a medium-sized chest made entirely of some thick, black metal, the lid open to reveal…

“Red lyrium?” Kit asked.

“This is not good,” said Varric. “If all the chests like this one are red lyrium, there’s a lot of it here.”

“Shit,” said Kit.

“Andraste’s shit on a stick,” said Varric.

“Ew.”

“Have I ever told you what _Vishante kaffas_ means?” Dorian asked, sauntering over to the cart.

“No, and now I hope you never will.”

“It means ‘I shit on your tongue,’” said Krem, with a smile that was either twinkling or sly, depending on how Kit looked at it.

“Ew,” said Kit.

“Next time, bring Vivienne and Solas,” suggested Varric. “I guarantee neither of them will say a word about shit.”

"And didn't you make a colon joke back there?" Dorian asked. "I believe this is a case of the pot calling the kettle vulgar."

"You all are bad influences," grumbled Kit.

“I count twelve chests,” said Varric. “And we shouldn’t leave without disposing of it properly. I say we make camp in the cave and get started.”

***

It turned out they had not, in fact, found all the Freemen. They had not even found half of the Freemen. Everywhere they went… more Freemen.

“Do you think someone’s figured out how to grow them in pots?” Kit wondered, rolling the stiffness out of her shoulders.

They’d cleared out an Orlesian chateau where a chevalier who seemed to think very highly of himself had been hiding out, along with a bunch of other Freemen. After taking a look around, Varric had suggested they gather all the valuables in the front hall and flag them for Leliana’s scouts to transport to Skyhold.

“If so, I’d like to know the secret,” said Dorian. “Could come in handy, if I ever decided I want children.”

“What?” Kit blinked. “Why would you need to grow them in a pot?”

“Two men can do many wonderful things together in a bed, but making babies is not one of them.”

“Oh. Huh.” That made sense. “Now I wish I weren’t joking.”

“I don’t. Not really.” Dorian shuddered. “They’d take all my _me_ time.”

“And all your _everyone else_ time, too,” Krem added wryly. “They take _all_ the time.”

Kit’s eyes went wide. “You have kids, Krem?”

“Nah, siblings. Close as I need to get, though. At least for a while.”

“I think we’re done here,” said Kit. “Varric?”

“Just a second.” Varric trotted toward the dining room and returned with a painting easily twice his height in length _and_ width dragging behind him. “ _Now_ we’re done.”

They sent up a flare while on their way to the elegant, gilded gate and surveyed the forest.

“We should head northeast from here,” said Krem.

“Lead the way.” Kit fell in a few paces behind him, to his left. “You’d be a good dad, Krem.”

He twisted around, one corner of his mouth quirking. “You think?”

“Well, I don’t know anything at all about families, so take it with a grain of salt,” said Kit.

“Plenty of people _with_ families don’t know anything at all about families,” said Varric, taking up the rear.

“Reassuring, Varric. Very reassuring.”

“What is that?” Dorian said sharply.

He pointed to something in the distance. Something red… and moving.

“Quiet,” said Krem. “Behind me, and no noise.”

They hunched down low, letting the thick foliage hide their advance from view. Step by slow step, until they had a view of a road—just a pair of dirt tracks cut through a cleared strip of forest—and a caravan pulled up along the verge.

And a camp beside it. Tents, a fire, perfectly normal. But the people… if they were people at all…

Kit pressed her palm to her stomach, suddenly queasy. “This is so bad.”

“What _is_ that?” Dorian repeated, his voice so thin and sharp he could have shaved with it.

“That’s what happens when you spend too much time handling red lyrium,” said Varric. “They’re halfway to being Meredith.”

“Or Fiona,” said Kit. “In Redcliffe.”

“I remember,” said Dorian. “I didn’t want to see anything like it _ever_ again.”

“You three will stay back while I engage,” said Krem. “Hit them hard and fast, and I’ll try to keep them off of you.” 

"No,” said Kit. “Absolutely not.”

They all turned to stare.

“What?” Kit widened her eyes. “I can give orders, can’t I? I’m the Inquisitor.”

Krem huffed. “Get on with it, then.”

“You’ll stay here, with us. I don’t want you touching any of those creatures unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Kit cleared her throat. “The rest is up to you, though.”

“Actually,” said Varric. “Do you remember that thing you did at Adamant? Making ice, melting it, and then electrocuting the Wardens?”

Kit nodded.

“If you and Dorian work together on that…”

They hashed out the details. When they were ready, Varric fired into the group of lyrium creatures. Kit laid down the ice, Dorian covered it with fire, and when the creatures reached the puddle they both drained their reserves on two explosive bolts of lightning.

“Nicely done,” said Krem, lowering the shield he’d never had to use.

They stepped into the road and circled the bodies, all of them afraid to get any closer.

“This is so bad,” Kit said again, the queasiness returning. Maybe because the only other time she’d seen anything like it was in a nightmare future; these lyrium-riddled enemies seemed like a piece of that nightmare, thrown out into the world to take seed and blossom.

“So let’s not linger,” said Varric. “We search the camp, we don’t touch anything with our bare hands, and we don’t carry anything away.”

“Agreed,” said Kit.

They found cargo manifests. Dates, prices, quantities. A careful accounting of all the people who’d died just moving the lyrium from one place to another. And more: names of people and names of places. Point of origin and destination.

“We have to get word to Skyhold," said Kit. "We have to _do_ something about this."

“Time’s up,” called Varric. “Burn it down.”

“Gladly.” Dorian waved his staff and set the tents ablaze.

Kit lit the wagons and, after they’d all retreated to a safe distance, they threw enough flame at the soaking, electrocuted bodies to vaporize the puddle and reduce the lyrium creatures to ash.

“Maybe we avoid the lightning puddle tactic next time,” said Dorian. “That almost tired me out.”

“Next time,” said Kit. “ _Fuck_.”


	51. the straw that broke the druffalo's back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 300 Kudos! I am all a-blush. Thanks for reading, readers. 
> 
> A bit of business before the new chapter: 
> 
> I'm going to start moving into Trespasser territory in about five or six chapters. I'll warn again before it happens; at first it won't be anything that you wouldn't learn from watching the trailer. 
> 
> If you're thinking, "I'd read, but I don't want X particular thing spoiled" go ahead and leave a note in the comments. If I can avoid X particular thing, I'll tell you.
> 
> Also, I've outlined Enemies to Lovers out to the end now. I'll wrap up as much as I can, but if there's some little tidbit or minor point that you're worried I won't follow up on, but really want some closure about, leave a comment for that, too. I'll see what I can do.
> 
> Finally: in the last chapter I had Kit suggesting that they loot the chateaux; I've changed it to Varric here & edited the last chapter to also be Varric.

Kit arrived at Skyhold feeling almost as sick and jittery as when they’d left the Emerald Graves. Dorian slung an arm around her shoulder as they walked away from the stables, Master Dennet barking at his grooms.

“Take a bath. Change into clean clothes. I guarantee everything will look a little brighter,” said Dorian. 

“And food,” Varric added. “Eat something hot. Made in a kitchen and not over a fire pit.” 

Kit shrugged, hauling herself up the stairs to the upper courtyard. They were right, but she didn’t want a bath and a hot meal. She wanted to be warm, she wanted to be held, she wanted…

Kit wrenched her gaze away from Cullen's tower. 

Whatever she wanted, he would not provide it. 

“I won’t be able to relax until I’ve checked in with the Council,” said Kit. “I mean the Advisors… sorry, still not used to the change. Enjoy your baths and food. I’ll catch up with you later.” 

_Checked in with the Council_. Ha. She’d wager both Dorian and Varric were clever enough to see through _that_ flimsy excuse. 

She could hardly go to Cullen for comfort, but she could put herself in the same room as him. She could absorb some of his energy. He’d been so calm in Haven. Resigned by the end, but still fighting for all he was worth. One set back after another and he never faltered… he had no idea how amazing that was. 

Oh, fuck it. So what if she’d regret it later? She’d get to see him _now_. 

But his tower office was empty. Not just empty—days of reports stacked up on the desk, untouched. Dust on the armrest of his chair. Cullen wasn’t just out; he was _gone_.

No. He wasn't supposed to leave yet. She was supposed to have more time.

Heart pounding in her throat, Kit climbed the ladder to his bedroom. Neatly made bed. Empty armor stand. Most of his clothes missing. Gone. 

He'd left without saying goodbye. 

Kit was shaking so hard she almost fell off the ladder as she climbed down. Her fingers wouldn't seem to grip... Or maybe she just couldn't feel them. They were white around the rungs. 

Her feet touched ground and she wobbled in the direction of the desk. Leaned against it, feeling lightheaded and bereft.  _You can be sad to the count of five_ , she told herself. One. Two. Three. _Count slower_. Four. _Slower than that. You're going to miss him so much_. Five. 

Kit sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly. She'd known it would happen sooner or later. It had been sooner. That's all. 

The world still needed saving, and now they'd all need to work that little bit harder. 

She still needed to summon the advisors. Find out if they’d received the messages she sent, get their news. She crossed the courtyard to the training dummies but didn't see Cassandra. Entered the smithy and looked around; one of the blacksmiths pointed to the corner and rolled her eyes.

Kit followed the pointing finger and… there was Cassandra, her long legs stretched out on the floor, slumped against a pile of burlap sacks, with a bottle in one hand. 

“Ah,” she called in a thick, muddled voice, clambering to he feet. “Here comes the mighty leader of the mage rebellion!” 

“Not really,” said Kit. “It was more a team effort, you know?” 

Cassandra threw her arms wide, amber liquor sloshing over the mouth of the bottle and dribbling down her fingers. “Once lowly prisoner, now the fabled Herald of Andraste! A toast to you, my lady!”

“You’re...  _drunk_?” 

“What of it?” Cassandra took a swig from her bottle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Nothing. It’s fine.” It was _weird_. Had she ever seen Cassandra drink before? Certainly not to excess. “Just, take an hour to sober up and meet us in the War Room. I could use the time to take a bath, anyhow.” 

“I will _not_ ,” said Cassandra.

“What do you mean, you ‘will not’?” Kit asked. “You need more time? Will a couple of hours do?”

“A couple of hours. Ha! Do you have any idea how many _hours_ Justinia and I spent preparing for the Conclave? How many years ago we first contemplated an Inquisition, how we worried and debated, waiting for the right moment? It was to be her legacy. _My_ legacy.” 

“I'd sympathize, Cassandra, but  _you_ brought me into the Inquisition. _You_ kept me here after I tried to leave. _You_ brought my friends here. _You_ made me the Inquisitor—” 

“ _No_!” Cassandra shouted. “Not me. I was _outvoted_. Leliana has always been better with words. _She_ persuaded Josephine and Cullen.” Cassandra snorted with disgust. “ _I_ think she’s gone mad.” 

“Wonderful. Well. You’re welcome to your opinions.” Kit raked her hand through her hair. “You know where to find us. There’s some scary shit going on right now, and we could use you. I’ll leave it at that.” 

Kit turned to go.

"I fear to see what you will make of this world.” Despite the slurring, the clumsiness, there was no question that Cassandra was dead serious. "Almost as much as I fear Corypheus." 

Kit snapped. She was _sick_ with all she’d seen. Just knowing what Corypheus planned made her stomach turn—and to be compared to him? She’d been hanging on by a thread, and it broke.

She whirled on Cassandra. “Because wanting mages to live decent lives makes me the same as a pseudo-god on a continent-wide rampage. Right. Chantry logic in action.” 

“You coddle the mages! Encourage them!” Cassandra shouted. “They almost cost us _everything_!” 

“And the Chantry already _did_ cost _us_ everything,” Kit snarled. “You’re scared of the world _I’d_ make? Well, we’re living in the world the Chantry made and it’s _terrifying_. Do you know how the Emerald Graves got their name? Of course you do! Everyone knows! You don’t even have the decency to be ashamed! It’s convert or die with the Chantry, and it always has been. You’re no different than the fucking _Qunari_.” 

“You _dare_ —this is _blasphemy_ —” 

“Do you even _see_ yourself?” Kit barreled on. “Varric laughs about being dragged through Kirkwall in chains and made to perform like a dancing bear but it's not funny. It’s disgusting.”

“I did what I had to do—”

“Which remains a shitty excuse for inexcusable behavior,” Kit interrupted. “You served a tyrant, Cassandra. And the tyrant before her, the last two in a long line of tyrants. And if you can’t see that you’re no Seeker of Truth.” 

Cassandra's palms began to emit a cool blue light. Seeker magic—and Cassandra’s particular ability was to burn the lyrium in her target’s veins. A gruesome way to go.

Kit stared Cassandra right in the eye. It would be quite the irony if a Seeker of Truth killed her just to stop her from speaking it. 

“I cannot do it.” The blue light faded from Cassandra’s palms and she slumped, stumbling back against the burlap sacks. “But I do not belong here any longer. I will not help you ruin everything I have worked for. Everything I believe.” 

“Great. Just _great_ ,” snapped Kit. “Take the bottle when you go. Something to keep you busy while the world falls apart.” 

Kit stormed out of the smithy, thwacking the ground so hard with every step her feet began to hurt before she reached the great hall. The wave of adrenaline that had carried her through the fight with Cassandra drained away as she climbed the stairs. 

She could have handled that encounter better. She could have walked away. She could have kept her opinions to herself. So many options and instead of taking one, she'd made a bad situation worse. Cost them a valuable ally. 

She was not turning out to be a very good Inquisitor. 

Josephine sat at her desk, scribbling away, a fire burning merrily in the hearth. She’d got her furniture back and the room was once again a cosy refuge in the otherwise austere fortress. 

“The Inquisition is falling apart,” Kit announced.

Josephine put down her pen and pursed her lips. “Indeed. That does seem to be the case.” 

“The Inquisition _can’t_ fall apart,” Kit said, speaking aloud the words she’d been afraid to say, even to herself, all the long way back from the Graves.

“That, unfortunately, is not true,” said Josephine, with some asperity. “If you want my advice—”

“You have no idea how much I want your advice,” Kit blurted. “Please. Is Leliana still here or did she decide to, like, run off to become a hermit in a cave while I was gone?” 

“She is in the rookery,” said Josephine. 

“I’m going to go get her,” said Kit, backing toward the door. “Then I want to listen. Just—please don’t quit while I’m gone.” 

She jogged back through the hall and took the steps three at a time. What if Leliana wasn’t there? What if Josephine had been writing a letter of resignation? What would happen to the Templars now that Cullen had gone? Would they abandon the Inquisition, too? Would the mages be able to kill Corypheus if the Inquisition lost all of its allies? 

How had she let this happen? When did she become such an utter failure?

Leliana _was_ in the rookery, humming to herself as she sorted through a pile of reports. 

“Welcome back!” the spymaster called, smiling cheerfully. “I see you’ve been busy.” 

“Not busy enough,” said Kit. “Can we meet in the War Room? Nowish?” 

“Of course. Just wait a moment and we’ll walk down together.” 

Leliana returned to her reports and her humming, a little louder now. She held a few over the candle at her elbow, burning them to a crisp, and stacked the others neatly. As she took up a small stack of paper strips and began rolling them into the canisters hanging from her ravens’ legs, she began to sing the words as well. 

“We tell the tales,” she sang, inserting a message into the canister hanging from its leg and carrying it out to the balcony. She released it into the air and hummed a bit as she rolled the next message into its designated canister. “We love one more day.” 

Her voice was sweet rather than strong, but so clear. And full of emotion—melancholy and hope, love and grief. Kit listened and watched as Leliana dispatched one raven after another, soothed by the repetitive motion as much as the singing.

“There we go.” Leliana took Kit’s elbow and guided her toward the spiral staircase. “Thank you for waiting.” 

Why was Leliana being so friendly? Kit’s anxiety began to spike again. 

“The Inquisition tripled the size of its coffers since you went to the Emerald Graves,” said Leliana. “I’m glad you’ve begun to concern yourself with the welfare of the organization.” 

“That was Varric’s idea,” said Kit.

“But you allowed it.”

“Krem was in charge, really.”

“Krem decided to wipe out the Freemen of the Dales?” Leliana asked. “My, that was presumptuous of him.” 

"No, that was me." 

“Mmhm.” Leliana opened the doors as they crossed through the great hall to Josephine’s office. “Hello, Josie. Should we send a messenger to fetch Cassandra? She might want to attend.” 

“Actually…” Kit swallowed. “Cassandra just quit.” 

Josephine buried her head in her hands with a muttered, “ _Braska_ ,” but Leliana only looked sad, her rosebud mouth turning down at the corners. 

“I’m sorry,” Kit blurted, throwing herself into one of the armchairs by the fireplace. “It’s my fault. I said things I shouldn’t have said.”

“So be it.” Leliana took a seat in one of the other chairs, crossing her legs primly at the ankle. “We’ve received all your messages, but we have news as well.” 

“Is it bad news?” Kit asked.

No answer.

“Okay. More bad news.” Kit paused. Rubbed her hands up and down her thighs, the leather soft and supple under her palms, listened to the crackling fire. Whatever it was, she would handle it. She _had_ to. “Go ahead.” 

“When you sent word about the Red Templar leader, I shared your information with Commander Cullen, hoping that together we could track him down,” said Leliana. “But once we had a location, Commander Cullen would not wait for your return to take action. He assembled a small expedition force and left for this ‘Samson’s’ base of operations. He was gone before we learned about these red lyrium creatures; the letters you wrote describing them arrived long after the ravens. Commander Cullen could not have planned for the resistance he is bound to encounter and I’m afraid he’ll be badly outmatched.”

Kit’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “And you've wasted time waiting for me to come back to send reinforcements?” 

“We don’t have the authority to dispatch soldiers, Kit,” said Josephine. “Commander Cullen was rash, and I am sorry for it, but our choices were to wait for you or jeopardize our right to remain here at Skyhold.”

“Well, can we catch up with him?” Kit asked. 

“We can try,” said Leliana. “I hoped you would want to make the attempt, so I’ve put a portion of our reserve forces on standby. They’re ready to leave right now.” 

“Now sounds like a good time, actually.” Kit stood. “Is there any other crisis that demands my immediate attention?”

“The rest will keep,” said Josephine.

“You say that now…” Kit sighed. Enough snark. “I want the Inquisition to succeed. I will do everything I can to make it succeed. I promise. And now I’m going to go make sure that Cullen and his men don’t get slaughtered.”

 


	52. known knowns and known unknowns

Kit knew they were too late when she saw smoke. Thin black plumes visible long before the thick walls of the Shrine of Dumat appeared on the horizon. As they got closer, she had to stop breathing through her nose. It still coated her tongue, clung like grease to her throat.

Nothing quite like the smell—the _taste_ —of a pyre. 

She dug her heels into her horse’s flank, but Ser Barris anticipated the move. He spurred his horse in front of hers, forcing her mount to rear and shy away to avoid a collision. 

“Please, Inquisitor,” he said, polite as ever. “Stay with the soldiers. Rushing ahead alone won’t help anyone.”

Kit loosened her grip on the reins and fell back into formation. Barris had been so consistently, carefully polite that she had no idea if he liked her or hated her. Only that his manners were impeccable and he took his lyrium like clockwork. 

Barris deployed his lieutenants, dispatching small groups to scout and others to manage the horses and supply wagons while the foot soldiers prepared to enter the shrine. Kit trotted around to hand off her horse with the others and returned to her place at the front, pacing impatiently while Barris delivered his instructions.

“Proceed with caution!” he shouted, wrapping up. “A risky, poorly planned rescue will cost lives and save none!” 

Why had she come, exactly? She had no useful role to play here. It had taken her a few days to realize it, though, and by then it was too late to turn back. She heard _Cullen’s in danger!_ and ran off like an overzealous mabari.

She could stand to take Barris’s advice. _Proceed with caution_. She’d been taking too many risks. Acting on instinct when she ought to step carefully. She had no right to be protective of Cullen, yet here she was. 

Barris jerked his chin at her as he turned and they began their final approach to the shrine. She kept a safe distance behind him all the way to the gates, battered open and hanging on their hinges, and the first good view she had of the courtyard beyond.

A long, narrow, rectangular court fronted a building that looked something like a Chantry… or maybe Chantries had been designed to look like Tevinter shrines. The shrines had come first, after all.

A battle had raged through the courtyard, but it was well over; the Inquisition had fought and won. An infirmary had been set up in one corner, the wounded lying on pallets and soldiers moving among the healers, helping them to lift and carry. The pyres burned in the opposite corner. More soldiers tended the flames, while others dragged bodies in one direction or the other: those who could be saved to the healers, those already lost to the pyres.

“It’s best not to touch the red lyrium,” Kit told Barris. “Make sure any soldiers disposing of Red Templar bodies are wearing thick gloves… and you might want to set up camp away from those fires.” 

He glanced at her and nodded curtly.

Kit winced. He must have known some of them before they were Red Templars; before they were so changed and maddened that she found it easier to think of them as _creatures_ than _people_.

Cullen wasn’t in the courtyard, but—she insisted to herself, staving off panic—that could mean all kinds of things, only some of them bad. She _did_ see Rylan, standing at the top of the stairs leading into the shrine, and hurried over to him.

“Commander Cullen?” she asked.

He pointed at the door. “Inside.” 

Kit made it half a step before she paused and asked, “How did it go? The battle, I mean.” 

Rylen shrugged. “Could have been worse.” 

Was Rylen the kind of man who said ‘could have been worse’ when that was the only positive thing left to say? Or was Rylen the kind of man who said ‘could have been worse’ when he was too modest to brag about his successes? 

Kit narrowed her eyes.

“Not bad,” he clarified. 

Oh, for crying out loud. Kit rolled her eyes and continued on into the shrine. It was quiet inside, and empty—only a few smears of blood on the ground to show that any fighting had taken place. Kit’s footsteps echoed through the cavernous chamber as she crossed the polished stone floor; the hollow tapping gave her the unnerving sensation of being _followed_. 

When a dragon skull separated itself from the pervasive gloom, taller than she was and at least 60% teeth, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

She found Cullen in the inner sanctum, sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up and arms looping around them, next to the body of a Tranquil mage. His shield lay at his side, sporting a few fresh dents, as did his sword, but he himself was uninjured. 

“Cullen?” 

He lifted his chin and pointed his nose at her, but she wouldn’t have gone so far as to say that he _saw_ her. Kit hovered in the doorway, standing on one foot like some sort of dotty bird. Whatever he was doing here, it was private. She didn’t belong.

“This is Maddox,” he said, pointing his nose at the body of the dead Tranquil.

“Oh?” She advanced a few steps, hesitated, advanced again. Squatted at his side. 

“He was a mage in Kirkwall’s Circle. He was caught sending letters to a sweetheart who lived in the city and made Tranquil for it. As punishment.” Cullen looked up again. He focused on her this time, his expression patient and… expectant? Yes, expectant. He wanted something from her. 

But what? Why tell her this horrible story…

_Oh_. Oh.

So she would yell at him. Call him names and accuse him; play the role of scourge and hairshirt. He wanted her to throw his guilt in his face and then rub it in a little. Maybe toss some salt on the open wound for good measure.

Kit rocked back on her heels and then onto her rear, throwing her arms wide to catch herself. She must seem like a pretty reliable source of abuse, huh? Angry and unfeeling and perfectly willing to hurt him, even when he was at his most vulnerable. 

She blinked a film of tears away and looked at Maddox, instead. He wore mage robes and his hair cropped close, skin baby-smooth and milky pale, cheeks rounded. He had a bit of a potbelly. But for the sunburst brand marking him as Tranquil, he looked like all the mages used to look, before the Circles fell: like someone who didn’t get enough sun or exercise.

She hadn’t encountered a mage who looked or dressed like Maddox in _ages_. But every detail remained excruciatingly familiar. And posed next to Cullen, of all people, hale and vibrant _Cullen_ with his sun-bleached hair and sun-tanned skin and sheer physicality… though Cullen knew what it was like to be trapped, didn’t he? So appearances could be deceiving.

“Maddox used to make little paper birds,” continued Cullen. “They were silly, cheerful, completely unexpected in a place like… like Kirkwall used to be. After he was made Tranquil, he was put to crafting magical paraphernalia. Runes and staves and whatnot. He was very good at it.” 

She wasn’t going to tell Cullen not to feel bad. _She_ felt bad, just listening to the tale. It sometimes seemed like she’d lived several lifetimes since leaving Ostwick, but seeing Maddox—all the little details they’d shed so eagerly—brought it all back. The close quarters, the monotony, constantly being watched.

Maddox must have been afraid all the time—they were _all_ afraid all the time, and he’d been in _Kirkwall_ —and he’d still made paper birds. It was worth remembering.

Cullen fell silent and she sat silently by. Why would he expect kindness from her? When had she _ever_ been kind to him? The first things she’d said to him had been cruel; maybe that’s all he’d ever wanted from her. A haunting. 

“One of the Templars sympathized with Maddox,” Cullen said. “Samson. Maddox couldn’t leave the Circle, so Samson agreed to take the letters to his sweetheart. When he was caught, they were both punished. Maddox was made Tranquil and Samson was stripped of his rank and removed from the Order. We’d see him once and a while, or get word of him, begging for lyrium down by the docks or in Darktown. Places for desperate people.” 

“Samson…” The name was familiar. “The Red Templar leader?” 

Cullen nodded.

So the Commander of the Inquisition’s armies had served alongside the Commander of Corypheus’s growing army. He’d been for Cullen what the Tranquil—like Maddox—had been for Kit and other mages. An object lesson. 

“Samson _hated_ Meredith. Saw her for what she was much earlier than I did. But it didn’t take long for him to come sniffing around the Gallows, trying to curry favor. Looking for a way back.” Cullen paused. “He _repelled_ me. He had _no_ control, _no_ convictions… And those were the qualities I valued above all. That I most strove to embody.”

Cullen laughed, brief and bitter. 

Kit shivered and stood. She explored a bit; shaving implements lay scattered among the debris, a cracked jar of leather polish that smelled pleasantly of beeswax and almond, slippers with scuffed soles. Samson’s private quarters.

“What are you doing here, Kit?” Cullen asked, in a different tone now. As though he’d only just realized that she wasn’t supposed to be here. 

“We were worried that you’d be overwhelmed,” she said. “I came with reinforcements.” 

“I see. Thank you. Taking the shrine posed a greater challenge than I’d expected, I’ll grant, but not insurmountable. A bit of careful planning saw us through.” 

So he was back to his usual courteous but distant manner. Like Barris, actually. Good Chantry boys who always made the effort to be polite. Right up until they cut your head off.

“Glad to hear it.” Kit looked at the door. Time to go. “I should have trusted in your abilities.”

She took one step, and then… Cullen spoke again. Stopped her in her tracks. 

“Samson and I were more alike than I was willing to admit, back in Kirkwall.” The expectant look had returned, sharpened into hunger now. “I wonder if it’s not still true.”

“Because you think I’m like Corypheus?” Kit asked. Just like Cassandra. Once she could ignore, but twice? A painful throbbing started up at her temples. 

“What? No. That’s absurd. Because I needed a cause.” Cullen stretched one of his legs out, propped his elbow on the still-raised knee of the other. He was releasing himself from the tight knot she’d found him in; taking up space again. “I have always _tried_ to do the right thing. But the number of times in my life when I’ve been sure that I succeeded are so very, very few. When I doubted myself, at least I could trust that my superior officers knew better. That the Chantry knew better. Without that assurance…”

“There’s just doubt?” Kit finished.

Cullen shrugged. “You’re always confident. How do you manage it?”  

Kit snorted. “Easy. I never worry about doing the right thing.” 

A pause. “That’s not true, Kit.” 

Kit shrugged and stared with great fascination down at Samson’s desk. “So what did you want from the Inquisition when you joined?”

“What did _I_ want?” He seemed surprised by the question. 

Kit nodded. 

“An end to the war. A reformed Chantry. Better relations between mages and Templars.” 

Kit shook her head. “That’s too vague. What _specific_ things did you want?”

“I wanted to improve the lot of my brother Templars,” he said, slowly now. “More choices in life, the possibility of a better death. Lyrium madness is nothing to look forward to.”

“What else?”

“You mean that’s not enough? It seemed a near impossibility when I joined, and that hasn’t changed.” 

“What if I promised to make those things happen?” said Kit. “Or to let you make them happen, exactly as you wanted? Would you stay?” 

“With the Inquisition?” 

Kit nodded. 

Cullen scrubbed at his face. When he uncovered his eyes, he glanced at Maddox and then rose to his feet. “Let’s get out of here. This is no place for a conversation.” 

She preceded him out into the gloomy hall. Didn’t know what to do with her hands and fiddled lamely with the studded pockets of her coat. 

“I don’t know,” said Cullen. “I can’t predict what you’ll do; and so I can’t be comfortable with it. Leaving all the Templars at the mercy of a mage who hates us… who makes jokes about killing us?”

“Gosh, what a nightmare,” said Kit flatly. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”

“Am I wrong?” 

“No. Not at all.” She made the mistake of looking at him and, crap, he was so fucking _sincere_. Warm brown eyes full of regret. Letting her down gently. “You just described life in the Circles, more or less. Only with the roles reversed.” 

“Yes, well… Not an appealing prospect.” 

“No, it wouldn’t be.”

“So you understand, then. Why I have to go.”

“Yeah, I do.” Her whole face was burning hot and her sinuses had started to sting. “Makes perfect sense.” 

“Are you… crying?” 

“Not yet.” 

“I didn’t think you _could_ cry.” 

“Thank you.” Kit blinked rapidly. “That makes me feel great.” 

“Kit, why are you—” 

“We should see about having that room searched,” Kit interrupted, trying to maneuver her face out of his line of sight. “And send someone to fetch Maddox.” 

But he grabbed her arm, hauled her around. He leaned into her just a bit so that his shield, slung over his back, curved over them like a big steel shell. And his hand on her arm was so big and firm and comforting. 

“ _Why_ are you crying?” 

Kit crossed her arms, ducked her chin. Concentrated really, really hard on keeping her voice from breaking. “Because I’m going to miss you.” 

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she hurried on. “You’re right. I’d leave if I were you. I’d protect my own first and worry about Corypheus later.”

“I… didn’t think you cared about me at all.” 

“Okay.”

“I thought you seduced me out of spite.”

“Sure.” 

“And to—”

“Maybe that’s enough for now.” Her throat was about to swell shut. 

He huffed. “But why would you _pretend_ indifference?” 

Kit squeezed her arms tighter around her chest. This was the single most embarrassing conversation she’d ever had. “It seemed like the decent thing to do at the time.” 

“Decent? That night—and everything you said— _decent_? That is the absolute _last_ word I would use to describe—and this made _sense_ to you somehow?”

“It appears I am wrong about many things.”

“But that means—” His hand fell away. He stepped back. One of the tears got through, but just one. “At Adamant. If I hadn’t been so angry—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kit interrupted. “Kind of worked out well for me in the end.” 

A pause. And then, cooly, “It did.” 

“So.” Kit smoothed her hands down the lightly armored coat she wore. She must look—and _smell_ —frightful. She hadn’t had a proper bath since before she left for the Emerald Graves. She’d snuck off with a sponge and a bucket when she could, but privacy had been hard to come by on the way to the shrine. “Glad you’re okay. Ser Barris will want to talk to you—”

“Wait.” He reached for her again and she let him pull her back a little closer than before. And _he_ spread his fingers a little wider, touched a little more of her. “I can’t say this changes anything— _wait_. Because I don’t trust myself where you’re concerned. Before I left Skyhold a mage tried to convince me that Templars ought to be able to befriend mages. She insisted that a true friend would kill a mage who turned abomination, and I’ve spent the past week trying to imagine myself killing you—”

Kit flinched.

“—But I can only see myself standing by and doing nothing at all. Asking you politely to stop killing everyone in sight. Or… begging, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m sure you’d find the strength,” Kit muttered.

“ _I’m_ not.”

Kit tried to swallow but nothing would go down. “Good thing you’re leaving, then.” 

“But there _is_ something that might change my mind.” 

Kit froze. “There is?” 

“Mages are _dangerous_. It will always come back to that, because it _has_ to. And you must address it properly, if you’re going to have any hope of success. Make me believe that I can work with you. Make me believe... if not in your cause, at least that some good will come out of what you've done.” 

“And how am I going to do that?” Kit snapped. 

“There is an issue… it could even be called a crime. I’d like to see how you deal with it.” 

“Yeah, well.” Kit shrugged. This had all the markings of a trick and if Cullen were any less… Cullen… she’d suspect him of plotting some public humiliation. But he was 100% Cullen, and that meant he really, truly thought he was doing a Good Thing. “Don’t get your hopes up.” 

 

 


	53. sheep in wolf's clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff before a meatier chapter later this week.

Cullen found Barris organizing their removal to a camp a few hundred yards distant from the shrine. He offered his captain his hand, shaking heartily. “I’m sorry to have denied you your rescue.” 

“I’m not,” Barris replied bluntly. “I’d rather arrive late to a success than early to a tragedy.” 

“True.” Cullen nodded. “Did you have to push your men very hard?” 

“As hard as I dared, knowing we might have a hard fight at the end of the journey,” Barris answered. 

“Then we’ll take it easy on the way back. My troops will appreciate it as well.” Cullen looked over at the infirmary, where Kit was talking to the head surgeon. “Did the Inquisitor give you any trouble?” 

“No, Commander.” Barris paused. “She was quiet. Kept to herself. She might have been nervous to be around so many Templars… or she was tired.”

“Tired?” Cullen laughed. “Once upon a time, maybe. Our rebel mages have toughened up since they left the Circles.”

“I realize that, Ser,” Barris said. “But she rode out with us hardly an hour after she returned from the Emerald Graves. She’s been on the road for quite a while. I worried she’d need coddling, at first, but she seemed impatient if anything.” 

An hour after she’d returned from the Graves? Why did he have to find things like this out from other people? It would be so much simpler if she’d just _tell_ him.

“It’s good to see you,” said Cullen. “And thank you.” 

Barris nodded.

Cullen went to check in with Rylen next, though, in truth, everything looked to be well in order. 

“Rylen?” Cullen asked. 

“Yes, Ser?”

“Do you remember trying to explain Ostwick mages to me? Something about how none of them were very powerful.”

“It’s not that they _are_ less powerful, only that they _act_ like it,” said Rylen. “I think it goes back to the old First Enchanter, who put them to making little soap dishes and napkin holders and whatnot. Let me tell you, after someone has lovingly crafted their twentieth or thirtieth napkin holder, it’s hard to convince yourself they’re at all threatening.”

Cullen covered his mouth to hide his chuckle. 

“There was an Ostwick mage arrived in Starkhaven not long before the Circles fell. Sweetest thing. Heart-shaped face, apples in her cheeks, so small you just about thought you could fit her in a pocket. She carved flowers on everything. _Everything_. Into the bedposts, onto the arms of classroom chairs, she’d make bouquets out of carrots and radishes at dinner. She had roses climbing up and down the weapon stand we left in the common area…” 

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m downplaying it, Commander. This girl—I never saw her without her spirit blade in hand, and the Inquisitor’s is just like it, about a finger long? You’ve seen bread knives that worried you more.” 

“It’s… cute.” 

“Oh, aye. Cute’s the word. Flower Girl used hers to cut through three-inch-thick silverite bars on her way out of the Starkhaven Circle.”

“ _No_.”

Rylen nodded. “Ostwick mages.” 

“Do you think it’s possible she was sent to Starkhaven to foment rebellion?” 

“Right up until the day I saw her leave—a dozen other mages in tow, I should add—I would have said not a chance. Now? I wonder what else I missed when I was paying attention to the flowers instead of the blade.” 

A more sobering conclusion than he’d expected when the story began.

“So… wolves in sheep’s clothing?” 

“Some of them were sheep in sheep’s clothing,” said Rylen. “You just never knew the difference.”

“I wonder why the Inquisitor isn’t more like…”

“Flower Girl?” Rylen finished.

Cullen nodded. Kit herself had knelt beside one of the injured soldiers. A green glow emanated from her hands; when it faded, the soldier she’d healed relaxed into his pallet, resting instead of trying to conceal his pain. Kit rose to her feet in one smooth motion, an easy uncoiling, and turned to the chief surgeon for direction. He pointed her to a new target; she went where she was bid. 

She was quite calm now, but by the time he’d gotten a good look at her face—after she’d insisted that she was _not yet_ crying—the whites of her eyes had been bright pink, vividly bloodshot and swimming in tears. He’d very nearly missed it; she’d sounded completely normal.

“Thank you, Rylen.” 

“Should I be on the lookout for trouble, Commander?” 

“No more than usual.” 

He didn’t speak with Kit again until late in the evening, after dinner. In the crowded army camp, with so many witnesses, there was no opportunity for a private conversation—he only stopped her long enough to ask, “Did Ser Barris tell you what happened in the Wending Wood?” 

Kit nodded. 

“And?” 

“If I’d heard the story a few months ago I’m sure I’d have been outraged. Insisted that there was another way, blamed Ser Barris for not finding it.” Kit shrugged. “And maybe the me of a few months ago would have been right. I’d like to think so, actually. But the me of today has killed more people than I can actually count and isn’t going to complain. 

“Kit…” 

She raised her eyebrows. 

“Don’t let yourself grow numb,” he said. “I can tell you from experience, that road leads places you don’t want to go.” 

“Maybe,” Kit acknowledged. “But I can’t go mad, either, and I think it might be one or the other.”

And that, too, he knew from experience. 

“It wasn’t the ideal outcome, but those have been few and far between.” Kit said then. “I believe he did his best. If he deserves any blame beyond that, it’s up to you to assign it.” 

 


	54. two roads diverged in a yellow wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got looooong and pretty talky but hopefully it is still exciting.

Kit considered the case of Vivienne and Philip from every angle on the way back to Skyhold. By the time the portcullis ground open and the expedition forces rode across the bridge, hooves clattering on the icy stone, however, she only felt certain of one thing: she could not wait to give someone _else_ responsibility for passing judgment. 

She remembered the scene so clearly. Not just Cullen, who she’d made herself watch, because she had to know how he’d look at _her_ if she were possessed, how he’d kill _her_. He could say whatever he wanted; he’d been sorry when he killed Philip, too. That much had been clear. But he did his duty and he always would.

No, she’d seen Vivienne, too. Dressed in flame orange and holding Philip trapped in ice as clear as glass, not a bubble or cloud to obscure the full horror of Philip’s transformation. She had wanted to be seen, and she had wanted _Philip_ to be seen.

She’d rather not go head to head with the Iron Lady—and she didn’t have to. The mages would have voted in their first Council while she was in the Graves and they could handle the matter. She’d say a few words about the Inquisition’s interests and then wash her hands of it. 

First things first: a bath and a change of clothes. She went to her room in the Mage Dormitory only to find it occupied by a young woman who explained that she’d had a roommate before and just wanted a space she could really call her own and the window was so nice and oh, didn’t Kit know? The Inquisitor had quarters in the great hall and all her things had been moved out weeks ago.

The “quarters in the great hall” turned out to be the entire top floor of Skyhold’s tallest tower. Her few possessions had been stacked in a corner; most of the furniture was new and grander than any she’d used since she was a child. 

Kit squashed the urge to complain and called for a bath. She heated the water scalding hot and kept it steaming while she scoured weeks of accumulated dirt and grime away. Then she put on the softest, oldest tunic she owned and sent a messenger—a messenger! Like a proper lady!—to find out when and where the Mage Council met, and how she could secure an audience. 

The messenger came back with a reply and Kit went guiltlessly to sleep on a mattress that felt like it had been made from only the fluffiest of clouds. 

So she was clean and well-rested the next afternoon when she joined a handful of other petitioners in a small waiting room attached to the main mage tower’s one audience chamber. She waited her turn, reviewing the dossier that had appeared on her new desk while she was asleep—Cullen had sent it, presumably via messenger, but maybe not? A girl could hope—until her name was called. 

The audience chamber looked much like Skyhold’s great hall, only smaller. The Council members sat all in a row at a long trestle table draped in rich clothes, a bank of tall, narrow windows behind them. The light made Kit squint; they needed drapes. 

She was glad to see Fiona, Nina, and Theo on the Council. Of the remaining three members, two were strangers and both of them elves. Zell, young and lithely handsome, ran his fingers through his hair so often that Kit was surprised he hadn’t gone bald. Farah was at an indecipherable age that Kit could only describe as “not young anymore”—if she’d been human, Kit would have put her in her thirties, but as an elf? Maybe forty or fifty… or a hundred, who could tell? Farah wore a sleeveless tunic that showed off superbly muscled arms and shoulders; she seemed quite athletic.

And the sixth member of the new Mage Council? Vivienne. 

“Well, this is going to be interesting,” Kit muttered under her breath. There were no chairs for the petitioners; only a carpet. Kit stood on it and pitched her voice to be heard. “Do you have a plan in place for judging and punishing mages who commit crimes? I’d like to bring one to your attention.” 

“Right now we’re judging them as a panel and on a case by case basis,” said Nina. “We’re making careful notes on each case and at the end of an exploratory period will use those to draw up a code, which we can present to the rest of the mages.” 

“Is the crime magical or mundane in nature?” Vivienne asked. “A mage is capable of either, but _we_ deal with the abuse of magic. Mundane crimes fall under _your_ authority.” 

Kit looked down at the dossier. “Both, I suppose. The perpetrator used—is alleged to have used—mundane means to trigger a mage’s transformation into an abomination.” 

Vivienne sat up straighter.

“Is this about Philip?” asked Farah. 

Kit nodded. As far as she knew, there hadn’t been any other abominations among the rebels.

The Council members murmured sorrowfully at one another. All except for Vivienne, who rolled her shoulders and stretched out her arms like a soldier getting ready to step into a sparring ring. 

“Mundane means,” said Nina. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to talk about how we will approach the issue of judging mages in foreign courts. Most judges won’t have the expertise or… mindset… to properly evaluate crimes where magic is only incidentally involved. What if the victim uses magic in self-defense, for example?” 

“I’ve given this some thought,” said Fiona. “There are enough mages of noble background, like Kit, or mages who have independent standing in court, like Vivienne, that we could ensure that there’s a mage with in an official advisory position in any country where mages live freely. An advisor could step in and assist where the judge falls short.” 

“That _is_ a good idea,” Kit agreed. Then, remembering Iron Bull’s planning session from before the coup, “But where could it go wrong?”

“Some magistrates will hate mages and judge against us no matter what,” said Zell. “But there’s nothing we can do about that.”

“And some will be stupid,” added Farah. “There’s nothing we can do about that, either.” 

“A fear of collusion,” Theo added. “People will expect mages to support one another. They’ll doubt any mage advisor’s word, assign it less weight than it may deserve.”

“Oh, no.” Farah flung herself back into her chair and made shooing motions at them all. “I see where this is going, and I will _not_ have it.” 

“Where?” Theo asked. 

“ _Templars_ ,” spat Farah. “Who knows about magic and has a reputation for being—Mythal forgive me that I’m even repeating this— _trustworthy_? Who would never, ever lie to help out a mage?”

“There’d be no point in having a mage advisor if a Templar advisor were present,” said Nina. “The Templar would always be believed and the mage discounted.” 

“A joint statement?” Kit suggested.

“Oh, indeed.” Farah rolled her eyes. “And while we’re at it, how about gold sovereigns that grow on trees?” 

“We could…” Kit thought. “We could try it here at Skyhold. Once we find a mage and a Templar that work well together as a pair, we could send them out together.”

“And if we do the work of selecting pairs, ensuring that they can do the job we set them, we’ll have a much easier time securing cooperation from foreign courts. Easier is always better,” said Fiona. 

“So it’s worth a try?” Kit asked. 

“It’s worth putting to the vote,” said Nina. 

The vote was unanimously in favor.

“So,” said Vivienne. “I suppose this means you’ll be judging the case?” 

Kit grimaced. “Looks like it.” 

“And the trial will be open to the public, of course?” 

Kit frowned. Vivienne knew this was about her. Wouldn’t she want it to be private?

“I would certainly prefer it.” Zell raked his fingers through his hair and then tossed his head, tossing the locks he’d just combed back into their previous position. “Especially if we’re going to test out the idea of a ‘joint statement’. How will we know if it’s working if we can’t see it in action?” 

“Agreed,” said Farah. Nina, Fiona, and Theo echoed the agreement. 

“We’re hardly ever so unanimous in our decisions,” said Theo. “You got a nice introduction to the Council.” 

“I suppose. I really would have preferred to hand this off to someone else,” Kit admitted. 

“Who wouldn’t?” said Farah. “It’s a shocking allegation. Who will you accuse?” 

“I’d rather not say just yet,” Kit said, but she couldn’t help glancing at Vivienne, whose cool, confident smile made her want to hide under a rock. “Could you send me maybe… four or five mages who’d be interested in an advisory role? I’ll ask Commander Cullen to do the same and we’ll see if any of them… get along.”

Farah snorted. 

“And one last thing… Vivienne? Could we speak privately? I have a few questions for you.” 

“No need for us to scurry into corners and whisper at one another,” said Vivienne. “I have nothing to hide. Ask away.”

“Oh.” Kit cleared her throat. Why did _she_ feel awkward? “How much time will you need to prepare your defense? If—”

“None at all, my dear,” interrupted Vivienne. “We could begin right now if you were ready, which I can see that you are not. I, myself, am always prepared for all eventualities.”

The hairs on the back of Kit’s neck rose. Somehow or another, she’d just walked into a trap.  

 

*****

 

She could _feel_ disaster looming. More than anything, she wanted to avoid it. Put the problem off for a day or a week or a month—until events overtook her and she’d lost her chance to make a difference. Until Corypheus took pity and opened a new Breach right over Skyhold. No way she’d be in the right place at the right time _twice_.

Because she could see where this was going. Not exactly. Not all the details. But the more she thought about it, the more _trapped_ she felt. 

She spoke to Cullen about setting up mage-Templar advisory teams. He liked the idea, of course. “That’s the kind of cooperation we need!” he said cheerfully, happier than she’d seen him in weeks. 

He agreed to send her a few candidates. The Council sent her a handful of others and Kit sat them down to tea. She kicked out everyone who started yelling and it wasn’t long before there were only two left. That would do to start. It didn’t have to be perfect from the get-go.

Not that there was much chance of that. This trial was going to be a shitshow. The dread finally wore her down: she set a time, sent messages to all the concerned parties, and posted notices around Skyhold. 

The Great Hall filled to capacity when the time came. Not just with mages, either—Kit saw members of the kitchen staff, visiting dignitaries, pilgrims and even a few lay sisters and brothers in their Chantry robes in the audience. A few Templars had requested, and received, permission to attend the trial; they huddled with Cullen by the door leading to the War Room; 

She was not comfortable with the way they’d arranged the… furniture? Could a throne be called furniture? Josephine had insisted on it. So now a great gilt throne sat at one end of the hall, right beneath the windows. Two tables faced it; Vivienne sat behind one, Ser Balon the other. 

A pair of Bull’s Chargers took up posts to either side of the throne. Bull blew his horn, opening the session, and a whole sea of onlookers fell silent as Kit took her seat. 

“We are here to consider evidence touching on the death of Philip, a mage formerly of the Ansburg Circle.” Josephine stood by the throne and read from notes she’d clipped to a thin wooden board. “He was possessed by a demon and transformed into an abomination in the courtyard of Skyhold. Enchanter Vivienne of Montsimmard trapped the abomination in ice and Commander Cullen, a former Templar, executed him. Numerous witnesses have testified to these events. Does anyone present dispute the facts?” 

No one spoke.

“Ser Balon,” said Kit. “You may present your case.” 

“Thank you, Lady Ambassador, Inquisitor.” Ser Balon stood. “I was witness to the mage’s transformation and execution. Afterwards, Commander Cullen asked me to find out what caused Philip’s transformation. The answer seemed quite simple, at first—may I call a witness?” 

Kit nodded. 

Ser Balon called Nina to the throne. 

“Enchanter Nina, you once belonged to the Ansburg Circle?” Ser Balon asked.

“I did,” Nina answered. 

“And you considered Philip to be in a vulnerable state of mind?” 

“He’d been abused as a young man,” said Nina. “If he’d had any chance of recovering, it wasn’t in the Circle—he was terrified of being made Tranquil and I don’t think anyone expected him to pass his Harrowing.”

“And you’ve also said that your journey from Ansburg into Ferelden was quite difficult,” prompted Ser Balon.

“Many of us died along the way, to bandits or shipwreck or beasts. We were unlucky, even in these dark times.”

“So you would say that Philip was at high risk of possession?” 

“Yes… and no,” Nina countered. “Philip had survived so much… he was tougher than any of us gave him credit for. I think that he could have lived a long life, and continued to heal. I believed in him.” 

“Thank you, Enchanter Nina,” said Ser Balon. “I have another witness. Len? Please take your oath for the Inquisitor.” 

Len turned out to be a carpenter. He was a strapping fellow, tall and lantern-jawed, perhaps a bit stout. He’d come to Skyhold to work on the repairs.

“Len, why don’t you tell us how you came into contact with Philip?” Ser Balon asked. 

“Yes, Ser. A woman… that one there, she didn’t tell me her name at the time but I know now that she’s Enchanter Vivienne. She hired me to follow him around Skyhold. She gave me a set of Templar armor and said she’d pay me well, and she did.” 

“Did she tell you what she hoped to achieve?” Ser Balon asked.

“No, Ser. She did not.” 

“There is, however, no need for us to guess,” said Ser Balon. “Enchanter Nina, does Len resemble anyone you remember from the Circle?” 

“Indeed,” answered Nina. “He looks a great deal like a Templar all the Ansburg mages knew and hated, a knight by the name of Ser Victor. It was Ser Victor that abused Philip as a lad; his perversions were well known in the Circle, as he made no effort to hide his behavior.” 

An angry muttering spread through the hall as the audience began to fit the pieces of information together. 

“How did Philip react to the sight of Len in his borrowed Templar armor?”

“He was terrified,” said Nina. 

“Is it fair to say that his fear was extreme enough to trigger his transformation into an abomination?” 

“Almost certainly,” Nina admitted. 

“That’s all.” Ser Balon resumed his seat.

The angry muttering swelled, waves that crested in periodic jeers. Kit shivered; she understood the anger, she shared it, but facing it down… this audience could become a mob. Very easily. 

“Vivienne, do you have anything to say in your defense?” 

“Very little,” said Vivienne. “I have a question for you, Inquisitor. Is Skyhold a Circle?” 

“No,” Kit answered immediately. “Absolutely not.” 

“It’s a public place?” Vivienne pressed. “Open to all, inhabited by people from every walk of life, of all ages and backgrounds?” 

“Yes,” said Kit. “Clearly.” 

“As I thought.” Vivienne smiled. She seemed… pleased. _Delighted_ really, her dark eyes glittering under slightly lowered lids. “Well, that’s all. The evidence is quite damning, I think. I hope you will judge me most severely.” 

Kit shifted in her chair. “What?” 

“Have no mercy,” Vivienne continued. “Be righteous and uncompromising.” 

Kit grabbed the carved gilt arms of her throne to to keep herself from jumping up and running away. She had never felt such a strong desire to flee in her life. 

“Do you want to explain why I’d regret passing a harsh judgment?” Kit asked. “Or just keep hinting at it?” 

“If you can’t figure it out for yourself, my dear, I am willing to assist.” Vivienne turned and gestured to the audience, arm extended and fingers softly curled, as though she were introducing a particularly impressive friend. “Do you see how many people have come to watch the trial? Once you’ve passed judgment, every single one of them is going to rush to the nearest ink pot and write a letter describing exactly what happened. And I simply cannot _wait_ for all the good people of Thedas to find out that upsetting mages is a crime.

“All the Dog Lords of Ferelden will learn that if their mabari growls at the wrong person and a cowardly mage turns into a fear abomination, they might be dragged before the nearest magistrate. The silver-tongued lovers of Antiva will know that if they seduce a woman one night and leave her the next morning, they’ll be responsible when she wakes up alone and transforms into a rage demon. And the Courtiers of Orlais? Oh, they’ll be _delighted_. If you’re playing the Game right, everyone you know is in a constant state of panic.  I've never fancied myself a martyr but I can't imagine anything that would more effectively guarantee the success of the loyalist mages and the re-establishment of the Circle, so I'm willing to make the sacrifice.”

Vivienne’s speech split the audience. The mages got angrier and angrier. They shouted; they wagged their fingers, they turned red in the face. But it wasn’t just mages listening, and the remainder of the audience? Many of them seemed… worried. 

Kit just felt sick to her stomach. Because Vivienne was right. No country would admit mages if that meant making ordinary citizens responsible for the mages' emotional well-being. So many of the stresses that made mages vulnerable to possession were personal (like a deceitful lover, as Vivienne said) or seemingly trivial (like a dog's ferocious bark, _also_ as Vivienne said—if the mage had been bitten badly? If they were simply timorous? And how was the owner to know?). 

She could see the shape of it now. The way the road would fork, and which way she would have to turn. Vivienne had seen it long ago, and, as she said, she’d prepared for all eventualities. She’d win either way.

And either way, Kit would lose. 

“Philip’s transformation was not an accident. You intended it, _planned_ it,” said Kit. “You acted with malice.”  

“Did I?” Vivienne tapped her bottom lip with the nail of one perfectly buffed index finger. “Len, where, exactly, did I instruct you to follow Philip?” 

“The tavern, the great hall, the stables, the library…” Philip scratched his chin. “Public places, you said.” 

“And Philip, an unharrowed mage laid low by repeated trauma, _went_ all of those places?” Vivienne pressed. “He mingled with the merchants, the scribes, the dignitaries, the pilgrims…?” 

“He did,” answered Len. 

“I see. Very troubling.” Vivienne clucked her tongue. “One more thing. Where did I instruct you _never_ , under _any_ circumstances, to follow Philip?” 

“Either of the two mage towers.” 

“Thank you.” Vivienne stood up and turned to face the audience, one hand on her hip. She raised her voice. “If any of you who knew Philip had given a thought to others, to those he might harm, and insisted that he isolate himself until he felt stronger, he would have been _fine_.  You wish to protect the weak among you? I commend your charitable spirit. But you may not do so at the expense of innocent bystanders. That is not protection. It is a reckless disregard for life.” 

“Murderess!” shouted someone from the audience. 

“Yes, yes, it has always pleased you to have a scapegoat,” Vivienne returned, withering now. “I’ve never met a First Enchanter who enjoyed recommending a mage for Tranquility, and I rarely meet a mage who has any sympathy at all for the most painful part of a First Enchanter's duties. But _someone_ must decide when a mage is beyond saving, a danger to himself and to others. Philip reached that point months ago, and everyone knew it. But none of you will take responsibility! You are so blind that you’ve expelled the Templars from Skyhold—while the unharrowed still wander freely through the fortress! This is a disastrous policy and it will be far deadlier, in the end, than anything that I—or any loyalist mage—has ever devised.” 

“Philip was a person!” Nina shouted. “Not just a pawn for you to sacrifice!” 

“ _All_ the pawns that we sacrifice are _people_ ,” snapped Vivienne. “That is how the Game is played. If anyone here doesn’t want to be made collateral damage in a high-stakes Game played by cold-blooded killers, here is my advice: _stop playing at politics_. There is no shame in admitting that you’re not cut out for it. But you must _admit_ it. And when you do, the loyalist mages will be waiting.” 

“How could you!” someone shouted near the far doors, and “You’ll pay!” came from the middle of the crowd, with no way to tell who’d made the threat. 

Kit stood and cast a ward of silence across the room. Catching everyone inside the Grand Hall took a great deal of mana and the ward broke almost as soon as she’d laid it, but it had the desired effect. The brief silence turned attention to her.

“Enough!” Kit’s heart thudded in her chest, slow and heavy as though she were pushing molasses through her veins instead of blood. “This is not a vote. It is not for mages to decide. Vivienne has been brought before the _Inquisition_. Before _me_. If you have an opinion, take it to the tavern.”  

The angry muttering flared; Kit heard Bits say, “Screw the Inquisition.” But it didn’t last—the chatter faded into silence. 

“Thank you, Katherine,” said Vivienne. “Though if you don’t mind, I have one last thing to say? In my defense, of course.” 

Kit shrugged. “Go ahead.” 

“A free mage must be completely responsible for the integrity of her body, her mind, and her person. It is the only option and it is a standard that few of us ever meet. If you want to be protected, if you want someone to hold you hand and shelter you from the shocks and cruelties of life, I invite you to join the loyalist mages in refounding the Circle. That is what they are _for_. But if you want to be free, then—as one of the only mages here to have lived any significant portion of her adult life outside the Circle—let me tell you, darlings, you will face tests that make the Harrowing look like a pleasant day’s walk in the park and _nobody_ will protect you from yourself. Fiona, dear, is that you? You’ve seen something of the world. Do you disagree?” 

Fiona held her hands clasped in front of her, fingers laced and white with tension, but she shook her head. “I cannot.” 

“So.” Vivienne sat back down at her table. “In conclusion, Inquisitor, I do most sincerely beg you to punish me for pulling a cruel prank on an unharrowed mage wandering freely away from any minders. The halls of power are full of cruel pranksters who will hear your message loud and clear.” 

Kit gestured for the mage-Templar pair to offer their advice. They both shrugged and shook their heads at her. Smart of them. 

Kit took a deep breath. She could punish Vivienne, appease the mages, and doom the rebellion. They’d never be free, not on these terms.  

Or she could set Vivienne free and doom herself. The mages would hate her. She’d lose the muscle that had guaranteed her leverage over the Inquisition, that had made her a ruler instead of a puppet. 

The fragile peace that had allowed the rebel mages and the Inquisition to coexist in Skyhold would be shaken. It might never recover. 

And Cullen… well, she doubted he’d be impressed either way. She’d come out of this looking weak. So the Inquisition would probably lose the Templars, too.

“Skyhold must be, above all, a safe place for mages. But Enchanter Vivienne has raised valid concerns. We must do more to ensure the safety of our visitors and workers. If the Mage Council won’t make rules to that effect, I will.” Kit took a deep breath. “Vivienne, you have committed no crime. But you cannot remain with us.” 

The jeering that followed this pronouncement almost deafened her. 

“Perhaps it would be best if the Templars escorted you out of the hall,” said Kit, signaling to Ser Barris. “For your safety.” 

“My, my, Katherine. Handing one of your own over to the Templars? I never thought I’d see the day.” Vivienne stood and smoothed her skirts. “Of course _I_ don’t mind. But to have brought you around so quickly? The Commander must be _very_ good in bed.” 

Kit froze. Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, _oh_ _no_. 

All the eyes turned away from Vivienne, swishing out of the great hall, to Kit. She saw suspicious, resentful faces. Leering and disgust. 

She… had to get out of here.

Kit stood. Her quarters were so close. Only a few steps. She was so, so glad that she wasn’t going to be sleeping in the mage dormitory any more. 

“Turncoat!” shouted someone. A man, of course. Not that he’d be alone in feeling that way. 

“Is it true?” Bits demanded, grabbing Kit’s arm and halting her escape. “Have you been fucking that _fucking_ _Templar_?” 

Kit winced. “It’s not… untrue.” 

Bits dropped her hand, took a step away. “I can’t believe you.” 

Kit swallowed. Looked past Bits to the rest of the hall. Someone pushed close—an elf she’d seen once or twice—and spit on her. The only sympathetic face in the whole room belonged to Fiona, and that almost said it all. 

“Would you really have done anything different?” Kit asked. Surely _Bits_ of all people would would think past the short-term satisfaction of punishing Vivienne. See the long term consequences, keep the goal in mind. 

“I just watched a woman get away with murder,” Bits snarled. “Because the _person in charge_ shrugged her shoulders and said ‘too bad, nothing I can do.’ That’s what we’ve been trying to escape, Kit!”

“If nobody else will take us, Skyhold will become another Circle by _default_ —”

“So it’s a free for all? Fuck you, Kit.” Bits shook her head. “All these _special missions_. Buddying up with these Inquisition assholes. Important friends, a hot piece of ass. Is that all it takes to get you to sell out?” 

Kit looked down at her feet. There was no point in defending herself. She could argue over the details, but Bits was right. Kit had hardly been here. She’d spent most of her time and energy on the Wardens, the false Calling, the red lyrium and Orlesian politics. On Varric and Hawke and Loghain and Cullen. 

On the Inquisition. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Yeah, well.” Bits paused. “So am I.” 

Bits stalked off. Kit slipped into the stairwell, climbed up to the lofted suite with the fancy Orlesian bed and the wide balconies and the casks of wine waiting to be breached. Her new place, because she wasn’t a rebel mage anymore. Even if she wanted to be, she couldn’t. She was the Inquisitor. 

 


	55. all for one and one for all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a friend coming in from out of town, so no updates for the next week.

Kit was sitting on the balcony of her suite, where the high winds keened as they blasted by, so she didn’t hear Cullen on the stairs. Something flickered in her peripheral vision and she turned to see him hovering, one hand on the banister, rubbing at the back of his neck and staring fixedly at the carpet. 

“Kit? Are you, ah, decent?” 

“Yeah,” Kit called. “Over here.” 

He looked up, saw her, and relaxed, his shoulders dropping by several inches.

“Come to say goodbye?” she asked.

“No, I—” He crossed to the french doors and frowned down at her. “Are those… doorknobs?” 

Kit followed his gaze. She hadn’t been able to sleep and so, sometime around five in the morning, she’d ducked into the undercroft, filled a burlap sack with assorted materials, and hauled them up to her room. She’d been mindlessly carving at them ever since. The sack had emptied out and now rather a lot of doorknobs littered the balcony. 

“Decorative doorknobs,” said Kit. 

“Decorative doorknobs,” Cullen repeated. 

“You want one?” she asked. “Or two or… ten?”

“How many—” He cut himself off. His eyes flickered rapidly back and forth as he counted and then burst out with, “ _Thirty-five decorative doorknobs_?” 

“Josephine will take some,” said Kit. “They’re nice. Really add something to a room.” 

He propped his hands on his waist and looked at the sun, already low on the horizon. “Is this what you’ve been doing all day?” 

He looked like look like he was posing for a statue. Hero in repose, thinking deep thoughts. A golden man bathed in a golden sunset glow. Stupid perfect posture and perfect profile. They ought to train the Templars to hunch and cackle. Everyone would be better off. 

Herself especially. 

“Yep.” 

“Well… stop it. Right now.” He retreated inside, to the desk, and returned with the empty, still-pristine wastebasket in hand. Then he knelt and began picking up the doorknobs, dropping them into the receptacle. He paused to wave one at her, a whitish rock veined with bright silver. She’d polished it until the silver really shone. “Is this _silverite_?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“And…” He grabbed another, pink and crystalline. “Dawnstone?” 

“Pretty sure.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and while he didn’t say anything _aloud_ Kit could lip-read well enough to tell he was counting silently to ten.

“I’m guessing you did not come up here to complain about my wasteful misuse of materials,” said Kit. 

“I came to find out if you’re all right but…” Cullen shook his head. The wastebasket was full and he’d only collected about half of the doorknobs. “Obviously not.”

Kit began paring down the half-finished doorknob in her hands, a lopsided hourglass of mottled-red bloodstone. “Obviously,” she repeated.

“Kit—”

Kit interrupted. “So what have _you_ been up to?” 

“Do you need to ask? I’ve been gone for weeks. The piles of paper on my desk were a foot high when I returned.”

“What about the _Templars_?” Kit pressed. “You’re leaving, right? Taking them with you?” 

“ _No_.” Cullen sighed, picked up the wastebasket full of doorknobs, and carried it inside. He hunted around in the closets, making ominous banging sounds, and came back with a drawer he’d pulled from a cabinet. He knelt again and began transferring the remaining doorknobs into it. “There wasn’t a right answer, Kit. I wanted you to take the issue seriously. I wanted… I wanted to see something other than anger, I suppose.”

“So you’re _pleased_.” Kit chiseled savagely at the bloodstone, flattening the sphere and digging a hole out of the center. “Excellent. Now I _know_ I screwed up.” 

“Even if you did.” He shoved the box to one side and reached for her knee, thumb brushing idly back and forth on the inside of her leg. A sensitive spot, apparently. How did he know that? Asshole. “You don’t need to be right all the time. You don’t need to have all the answers.You don’t… you don’t need to do this alone.”

She shot him a filthy glare. 

“You didn’t pay any attention when people started calling you the Herald of Andraste and addressing you as ‘Your Worship’,” he continued. “Why listen now, when they condemn _everything_ you’ve done because you made _one_ decision they don’t like?”

“Anyone who thinks I’m the _Herald ofAndraste_ deserves what they get,” Kit snapped. “It's different because I _care_ about these people. And because they’re _right_. Just _look_.” She pointed her little spirit blade at his hand on her knee. “There must be something wrong with me if I can tolerate _you_.” 

He flinched away so fast the movement was a blur, but the brief glimpse she got of his face, white with horror, seemed to splash back at her. All of a sudden the doubts and worries that had tormented her, kept her from sleeping, were pushed aside. She felt what _he_ felt; and she was horrified.

She reached for his hand, to pull him back. He was much too fast, but she caught his leg and wrapped both arms around it before he could walk away. “I’m sorry,” said quickly, pressing her forehead to this thigh. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Are you, though?” he asked, voice strained. 

She didn’t know what to say. She _was_ sorry, though probably not about the right things. She was sorry she’d ever been put in this position, because she wasn’t fit for it. Wasn’t good enough—she’d failed and she’d keep failing because she didn’t understand court or the Grand Game and had no notion of diplomacy. She was sorry to have hurt him. Sorry that he cared about her, because he needed someone kind and warm-hearted who oozed compassion from every pore. Someone who made pies instead of doorknobs and would forgive him for killing dozens and maybe hundreds of innocent people. 

She loved him so much she felt like someone had pried open her ribcage and put her vulnerable, unprotected heart on display every time she looked at him, but she could never be that person. 

He dropped to one knee. One of his hands landed on the top of her head, fingers splayed wide, his elbow at her shoulder, nestling her closer. He wrapped his other arm around her back and it felt _so good_. It didn't make anything better, but... it made everything so much more _bearable_. 

“It’s all right,” he soothed, and when she burrowed into his embrace he fell back into a seated position and let her huddle between his legs, face smashed against the cold metal of his chestpiece. “It’s all right.” 

He kissed the part in her hair and her breath caught. She reached for the nearest buckle in his armor, fingers fumbling because she was so eager, be he caught her arms and pushed her away with a chuckle. 

“No,” he said, and before she could be mortified added, “Leliana wants us in the War Room.”

“Oh?” Kit stood and brushed the grit from the seat of her pants one-handed. She’d been sitting on the cold stone for so long she could not feel her ass at all. “I thought you came to see if I was all right?”

 _“And_ to bring you to the War Room if the answer was ‘yes,’” he answered, rising somewhat more awkwardly. “Besides. I’m not sure if it would be such a good idea if we…” 

Kit glanced at the bulge in his trousers. “I am,” she said emphatically. Very, _very_ emphatically. 

He tipped her chin up with his fingers, so she had to meet his eyes. “Please.”

Kit frowned. There was something in his gaze… a shadow of something. A skeleton peeking out of a closet. 

“Okay.” She opened her palm and offered him the chunk of bloodstone she’d whittled down. “Would you like a napkin ring?” 

He stared at the thin circlet of translucent red stone, the colors shading from pale clear ruby to a deep, mottled burgundy. “I thought Rylen was joking. I really did.” 

“About napkin rings?”

“Not… quite.” He took the ring, though, and put it in a pocket sewn into the lining of his surcoat. “Thank you. It’s a… lovely gift.” 

She rose up on tiptoes. “May I?”

He nodded. 

She rested one hand on his shoulder to steady herself and kissed his cheek. His skin was warm; stubble prickled her lips. Gracious, she could just _eat him up_. But she kept that to herself; fell back onto the flat of her feet and picked up the drawer full of doorknobs—which, woah, really heavy—on her way back inside. 

“So, the War Room,” she said, putting the drawer down on her desk and heading for the stairs. “Is this where Leliana jumps in to stab me in the back now that Vivienne’s knocked me down?” 

“I don’t know,” said Cullen, following close behind. “She didn’t tell me what to expect.” 

“I have no idea if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Kit grumbled.

He laughed. 

They found Josephine and Leliana already in the War Room; Josephine was saying, “…and he never found out!” as Kit opened the door, but Leliana’s answering laugh dwindled into silence as she and Cullen stepped through.

Leliana clucked her tongue as she scanned Kit from top to toe. “You poor thing. Did you sleep at all? Listen to me. There is no shame in being outplayed by Vivienne. She is a master of the Game.”

“She did not earn the nickname Madame de Fer by handing out easy victories,” Josephine agreed. 

“Uh… thanks.” 

“We all start somewhere,” Leliana added. “And you’ve survived to play again. Not bad for a first outing.”

“Though the second one will come soon,” Josephine said. "And perhaps we can avoid a repeat..." 

“It will?” She did not want a ‘second outing’. She wanted to hide in her room and make more doorknobs. 

Leliana nodded. “I’ve had news from Val Royaux.” 

Kit braced herself. This was like one of those mystery boxes where some mischievous jerk asked you to stick your hand through a hole in a box for a ‘ fun surprise’ and maybe it would be feathers but maybe it would be scorpions. “Oh?”

“After Cassandra left Skyhold she set about bullying what’s left of the Chantry into some semblance of order,” said Leliana. “Apparently her enthusiasm was sufficiently impressive that not only has she convened the remaining high clerics to elect a new Divine, she’s also become the prime candidate.” 

Kit grimaced. Not quite _scorpions_. More like slugs.

“The election will be held in a week,” Leliana continued. “Barring some upset, her victory is certain. I love Cassandra like a sister. She is one of the finest people I know. And she wants reform, but, for such a bull-headed woman, she is very… timid about it. Justinia listened to us both; I believed in her ability to find a compromise that would make both of us happy. But left to her own devices, Cassandra will act quickly to restore the status quo, and the opportunity for real change will be lost.” 

“Wait,” said Kit. “You don’t want to return to the status quo?” 

“Me?” Leliana laughed. “Not at all. I’m quite the radical; didn’t you know? I’ve wanted to abolish the Circle for years. Ever since I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight. I want to restore the Canticle of Shartan to the canon, admit Andrastean elves into the high clergy… I want equality for everyone, and a Chantry that wins converts through mercy and compassion…” 

Kit blinked. The _Left Hand of the Divine_ was a radical reformer? She was a cold-blooded assassin! 

“I have always believed that a knife in the dark can be merciful,” said Leliana, correctly reading Kit’s dumbfounded silence. “Did you know that Cole is a spirit of compassion? It doesn’t surprise me that he arrived at our doors with a bloody dagger in each hand. But we have been talking…” 

“In any case,” Josephine interrupted, with a quelling glance in Leliana’s direction, “Empress Celene of Orlais has organized a grand fete at Halamshiral to honor the new Divine. I have secured invitations. We thought you might wish to prepare a response.” 

“Me?” Kit asked.

“The Chantry and Orlais have long been close, each one furthering the other's interests,” said Josephine. “The election of a new Divine provides a rare opportunity to… disrupt that relationship.”

“Putting the Chantry at odds with Celene would weaken it considerably and give the Inquisition more room to act,” said Leliana. “We could win ourselves time to force some of the reforms that Cassandra would never enact herself.” 

“And let’s not forget that Corypheus apparently has plans to assassinate Celene,” Cullen added. “Cassandra knows about them as well; saving the Empress’s life could win her a great deal of favor.” 

“So it would be better if _we_ saved her, reaping the benefit of all that gratitude for the Inquisition, instead,” finished Josephine. 

“Wait a minute,” said Kit. She looked at each of her advisors in turn. “Are you really talking about… helping me? To weaken the Chantry?” 

“We are talking about finding a better balance of power,” said Josephine. 

“It’s not just the mages that suffer under the current system,” said Leliana. “Everyone does, even the people who seem to benefit most. Just look at the Templars.” 

“If there is another way,” said Cullen, “I am eager to find it.” 

“Winning over Celene will be a challenge,” said Josephine. “Especially since Cassandra knows so much about you, Kit. While we place obstacles between Celene and the _Chantry_ , she will do the same for Celene and the _Inquisition_. No doubt she will portray you to the Empress as a dangerous extremist…” 

Josephine trailed off. When no one else stepped in to finish the sentence, Kit did it herself. “With some cause.” 

Josephine stared down at her wooden board. Leliana smiled impishly. Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck and said, “Er… just so.” 

Kit folded her arms over her chest and stared at the huge painted map of southern Ferelden. Orlais was the largest, the richest, the most powerful. Orlais was an _Empire_ ; their neighbors were _countries_. 

“I can try to find out more about the assassination attempt,” said Leliana. “My network of informants _was_ the Chantry’s network of informants; right now they have nothing, or next to nothing. That will give us one advantage.” 

Leliana looked at Kit expectantly. Kit looked back, confused. What was she waiting for? 

“If that meets with your approval?” Leliana prompted.

“Oh…” Why was she still asking? Kit had lost all her muscle. “Please do.” 

“And I can find out if any of the nobles at the fete will be sympathetic to us… and try to win a few extra allies,” said Josephine. 

Kit nodded. Even if she couldn't keep these people under her thumb, it seemed possible that they'd hear her out. That they wanted her input, not because she had a glowing green gash in her hand or a crowd of angry mages at her back, making threats. But because... maybe... they all wanted the same thing? 

Was that possible? Or had she just turned traitor? Really, completely turned? 

“I’m not sure gratitude will take us very far,” said Cullen. “We all know most of the nobles won’t take a stand at all. Not with the civil war still raging through the countryside. Too much uncertainty; too many factions. Too many ways to lose your head, if you stick your neck out in the wrong direction.”

“Win before you start,” said Kit, thinking of Loghain. “If we’re not sure of Celene, we should go elsewhere, first. Find other allies and present ourselves as part of a coalition, so it’s not just the Chantry versus the upstart splinter group…” 

“We have the connections,” said Josephine, “but any ally who stands up for us against the Chantry risks an Exalted March. Do we have anything to offer in exchange?”

“Templars,” said Cullen. “We will offer them _Templars_.” 

When he had everyone’s attention, he nodded at Kit. “Do you remember what you said, on the way to the Western Approach? About making agreements for Templars to serve in foreign armies? You thought it was the key to making mages free; I thought it would give Templars more choices. And force the people in charge to treat Templars better, as a result.” 

“Offer an opportunity to add Templars to a standing army? That… would be tempting,” Josephine admitted. 

“We can start with King Alistair,” said Leliana. “He was with the Hero and I, during the Blight. He will hear us out.”

“Hear us, maybe. But do anything?" Kit shook her head. "Everyone knows the Hero asked him to free the mages and he didn’t.”

“Perhaps he needs a reminder,” said Leliana. “Besides, he’s written to us for help. Apparently Tevinter supremacists have infiltrated the palace in Denerim. If we pay him a visit, clear out these ‘Venatori’…” 

“This could work,” Josephine admitted. "It... could really work." 

“So.” Leliana leaned over the War Table, both palms flat on the map. “I wish Cassandra well, but we will stand against her. For the mages.” She nodded at Kit. “For the Templars.” She nodded at Cullen. “And for the Chantry itself.”

A charged silence followed this pronouncement. It made Kit’s blood race and sizzle; she hadn’t slept in more than a day, but all of a sudden she was wide awake and full of energy. She wanted to go climb a mountain or something. Plant a flag, yodel into the wind. 

“If we’re going to travel,” said Cullen, “I need to make arrangements.” 

“And… Kit?” Leliana said. “See if you can do something to make sure that the gates of Skyhold won’t be closed to us when we return.” 

 


	56. through a mirror darkly

It took Kit an hour to work up the courage to visit the mage tower. Twenty minutes later, after three people called her a whore (one woman and two men, all strangers), one old friend from Ostwick stared right through her, and a weedy Nevarran with bad breath backed her into the corner of a dark stairwell and gave her a five-minute lecture enumerating all the reasons why her judgment of Vivienne had been wrong, she finally ascertained that Fiona was not in the building.

Fiona was in the library.

The one attached to the Great Hall. 

Kit could have avoided the whole ordeal. 

And that was about all she could handle for the day. She'd reached her limit and it wasn't yet noon. She cut across the courtyard, tugging the flaps of her coat tighter around her body and shivering more than the weather warranted, and entered the Great Hall. More than anything, she wanted to escape to her quarters and lock the door behind her... except that she really, really needed to catch Fiona before she left the library.

So Kit pushed open the first door on the right, connecting the great hall to the rotunda, only to stop cold when she saw the paintings on the wall. They were _incredible_. Clean bold colors and sharp geometric shapes that tied a series of distinct scenes into a unified whole. And the more she looked, the more she recognized: the explosion at the Conclave, the Breach, the destruction of Haven. 

"Your story," said Solas.

Kit jumped and squeaked, which startled the crows in the rookery overhead. They cawed; the flapping of their wings echoing all the way down to the bottom floor. Solas stood in the arched stone doorway that fed into the rotunda's spiral stairwell and he looked... odd. Ghostly pale, expression inscrutable, ears curving up to sharp points that cast longer, sharper shadows on his skull. 

An effect of the veilfire burning in a sconce on the wall? 

"Don't be silly," said Kit, too loudly. She was rattled and hiding it badly. "How can it be about me if I'm not in it?"

"What else do all of these events have in common?" Solas asked. "The unifying element is _you_." 

"Skyhold is full of people who lived through all the same things..." 

"The dark future in Redcliffe?" 

"There were three of us," Kit insisted. "Maybe it's about _you_. Or Dorian." 

"I see I will have to be more specific in future," said Solas. "Perhaps you'd like to sit for me?" 

"Wait... _you_ painted these?" 

Solas clasped his hands behind his back and bowed modestly. 

"They're really beautiful." 

"Thank you. Coming from another artist--" 

"Craftsman," Kit interrupted. 

"You make things. Beautiful things." 

"Everything I make _does something._ A cup can be prettier or sturdier or fit your hand better, but it's still for drinking. I'm not trying to"--Kit waved at the walls and shuddered dramatically--" _express myself_." 

Solas chuckled. "You sound like a child who doesn't want to eat his vegetables." 

"Because I don't." 

"Even though they're good for you?" Solas leaned his hip against the desk at the center of the room, crossed his arms over his chest. "We haven't had a chance to speak since you became Inquisitor, but please accept my congratulations. I'd like to think I played some small part in your rise to prominence." 

Kit made a face. "Gee, thanks." 

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, as the saying goes. And now you know why. We try to shape the future, but it rarely takes the form we wish. And your judgment of Vivienne... it could prove disastrous. If it were taken as a sign that mages can be harmed with impunity, the people you're trying to save could end up worse off than they were before you started." 

"Yeah." Kit slumped. "I know."

"So what will you do if the worst happens? If you wake up one day and realize that you've led the mages down the wrong path?"

"Are you kidding?" Kit snorted. "I'd shut up and let someone else take over. I shouldn't be in charge to begin with."

"Someone else." His voice flattened, took on a crispness that indicated displeasure. "But how would you decide who?"

"I wouldn't. That's the whole point. I mean... look. I wanted to do something. To contribute, make a difference. And the rebellion needed people who would stick their necks out." Kit waved at the murals again. "But look at this. It's... so much bigger than what I signed up for. Bigger than what I'm capable of, really."

"Ah." Solas relaxed, lips curling just at the corners. "So you'd leave it to someone more competent? Someone with a wider perspective?"

"Someone like _you_ , you mean?" Kit laughed. "If you want my job, you can have it. We'll gather everyone up. Make an announcement. It'll all be yours by morning." 

"No, no. That would not do at all." Solas pushed away from the desk and began to pace. He moved too fluidly to be described as 'agitated' but... this was as close to 'agitated' as she'd ever seen him. "You talk about giving up as though it were nothing. Don't you care about the mages? Don't you feel responsible? So many of the travails they experience now can be laid at your feet." 

"So I should dig the hole deeper? How does that make sense?" Kit rolled her eyes. "Look, this is stupid. If it came down to it--if things took a turn and I got the boot--I doubt I'd survive the transition. Someone would kill me, the mages or the Inquisition or the Chantry. I've racked up quite a few enemies."

"But if you didn't die?" 

"Then I'd _pretend_ to be dead," said Kit, exasperated. "And keep it up for as long as I could. Why all the questions, Solas?" 

"I'm... concerned about our bargain." Solas stopped his pacing and smoothed a hand over the tunic he wore, undyed homespun as always. "You haven't forgotten, have you?" 

"Bargain?" Kit scratched her head. "Oh, the orb. I haven't told anyone--why would I? I mean, would looking into it help us to defeat Corypheus?" 

"No. It would not help us defeat _Corypheus_." 

The subtle emphasis did not escape her. But she had enough to worry about--more than enough--and no desire to volunteer for more. "Then we're good." 

"Good," said Solas.

"Good," Kit repeated.

Kit paused. Best leave it there. She continued on up the stairs to the library, warmer than the rest of the building and thick with dust, where Dorian waved at her from a deeply cushioned armchair tucked into a well-lit alcove.

"What are you doing here?" Kit asked.

"Reading." He sniffed. "You ought to try it sometime." 

Kit scowled. "You too?" 

"Me too... what? What did I do?" 

"Oh." Kit relaxed. "Nothing." 

"Careful, now. I think you're becoming paranoid." He scanned the piles of books stacked around his chair and extracted a slim volume with a red cover. "Here. One of Varric's books. Go"--Dorian wiggled his fingers--"take a little time out." 

"Thanks." Kit saluted and continued down the rows of bookshelves until she saw Fiona sitting at a table, deep in conversation with a Tranquil. The archivist? Researcher? Someone had introduced them, but she didn't remember the details. 

Kit sighed and leaned against the stone balustrade. She flipped open the book and began reading. 

> _They say coin never sleeps, but anyone who’s walked the patrol of Hightown market at midnight might disagree. The pickpockets and confidence men head to the taverns at dusk, the dwarven businessmen and nobles go back to their tiny palaces to fret over the ways they got cheated, and the market falls silent..._

Fiona finished her conversation far too soon. Kit closed the book reluctantly when the older woman approached.

Fiona ran a thumb underneath Kit's eye, wincing sympathetically. "You haven't been sleeping." 

Kit shrugged. 

"Even the merriest souls can turn dour, faced with one painful decision after another. I hate to see it." Fiona sighed. "But what have you come to talk about?"

Kit quickly explained their diplomatic mission to Denerim. "But I speak for the Inquisition, not the mages. I can't make agreements on their behalf."

"So I'll join you," said Fiona. "Simple."

"Oh! Well, that was easy." For once. "And... will we have trouble when we return? Should we worry about another coup?" 

"I'll take it up with the Council," Fiona promised. "If I hear anything that gives me pause, I'll pass on a warning." 

"That's the best I could ask for."

"Probably. So... I'll see you the day after tomorrow? When we leave?"

"That's right but... one more thing." Kit fidgeted, turning the book over and over in her hands, staring at the spine with more interest than it deserved. "I keep thinking about Redcliffe. When I saw you in the tavern. I held you responsible for everything that had gone wrong since the start of the rebellion; I called you unfit. And since then... I've made so many of the same mistakes I blamed you for. I keep thinking about how arrogant I was, how foolish. I regret every word. I'm sorry, Fiona."

"Dear girl," Fiona murmured, pulling Kit into a hug.

Kit responded tentatively at first; Fiona was so small, so thin, almost birdlike. She'd always seemed fragile to Kit. And so Kit had hated her, because she was afraid of being _like_ her. Weak and compromising.

For good reason, apparently. And now here she was: all her fears come true and embracing the woman. If the gods existed, they had a terrible sense of humor. 

 


	57. this can't hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. No excuses; I fell off the wagon. I am a delinquent. Many apologies.

It took him a while to figure out what was bothering him. For days he had nothing but an itch at the back of his mind, a persistent sense of wrongness.

He tried to pinpoint the source. Systematically, eliminating one possibility at a time. He visited the Templar encampment outside of Skyhold three times a day, alert to whispers, fights, silent resentment that would leak out in sour faces and tight mouths. He checked and double-checked the horses, wagons, and trunks as they were packed in advance of their departure for Denerim. He reviewed the company of guards he’d selected to ride out with them; had one of their enemies attempted to suborn his men?

And so by the time they finally left Skyhold, everything was perfectly in order. Very, very perfectly in order.

All twenty of the outriders wore armor polished until sunlight playing over the silverite shone so brightly it hurt the eyes to look at it. They'd been drilled and drilled again to ride in perfect formation, ready to defend… well, a handful of ‘ambassadors’ each one of whom could probably take on a nest of bandits single-handed.

Maybe not Josephine. So the effort hadn’t been entirely wasted.

He was so busy that they were on the road before he realized that Kit was avoiding him.

She mostly rode at Fiona’s side, the pair of them making glum faces at one another. The former Grand Enchanter, always proud and self-contained, grew stiffer by the hour. She moved like her muscles were rubber bands that someone had pulled too tight.

And Kit had taken to wearing her hair in a shaggy fringe. And no wonder, either: her dark eyes, when he saw them, seemed to sink into her skull, ringed by dark circles.

And he hadn’t seen her smile in how long?

That was it.

That was what had been nagging at him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile. Or even just twinkle, the way she did after saying something particularly outrageous. The spark that had drawn him to her seemed to be going out.

And so, when they reached Redcliffe, he decided to do something about it.

He was sufficiently familiar with their supplies that he could prepare two saddlebags without asking anyone for help. He cinched one onto his horse in the morning, while the Inquisition party milled about the courtyard of Redcliffe castle.  
He carried the other one to Kit as she approached her horse.

“Hello,” she said without much interest, as he threw the saddlebags over the back of her horse and began cinching them into place.

“Good morning,” he replied.

“Those aren’t mine,” she said.

“They are now.” He glanced back in time to catch her frown. “We’re taking a detour.”

“We are?"

“Up.” He made a stirrup from his hands. “We should get going if we don’t want to spend the morning eating everyone elses dust."

She didn’t move.

“We've some business to attend to in the south,” he lied. “I’ll tell you more about it when we arrive.”

“Oh.” She reached for his clasped hands and separated them. “I don’t want to get your hands dirty.” Then she fit her foot into the leather stirrup and heaved herself into the saddle.

That was… odd.

Even after all these years, he still remembered the route. The shortcut out of town, the round, thatch-roofed hut at the intersection of the east-west and north-south highways. The most meaningless things filled his heart to bursting: the pale limp tendrils of spindleweed clogging the streams, the rustling in the bushes as deer fled.

“I grew up near here,” he said at last.

Kit stared at him.

He coughed. “Very near.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“My hometown, Honnleath, was overrun by darkspawn during the Blight.” Most of the inhabitants, including his parents, had died during the initial assault.

He’d been a day’s ride away, a trained knight, and no help at all.

Though Kinloch Hold may as well have been the moon. He hadn’t learned what happened until months later, and even then it had been an accident. He’d been reading about Neria. Wondering how the girl he knew became the hardened, weary woman who rescued him from the Circle…

Cullen glanced over at Kit. He understood now. How sometimes a person could age years in a single day. How experience changed a man, whether he wanted it or not.

“The town itself is gone,” he continued. “Razed to the ground.”

She was paying attention now. Listening. That was better than the mildly frosty blankness he’d been getting for days.

“You must have lost people…”

He nodded. “But not everyone. A few folk—including all three of my siblings—made a last ditch effort and sealed themselves inside a magical barrier, hoping that rescue would arrive before they all starved. I can hardly imagine what they must have gone through. They were underground, no food and hardly any water, with darkspawn pounding at the barrier day and night, furious at being denied.”

Kit pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

“The Hero of Ferelden arrived in the nick of time,” he went on. “Saved them.”

Kit grinned. “So the Hero of Ferelden personally rescued all four of the Rutherford children?”

Cullen nodded.

“That must be a rare distinction. What was she like?”

Cullen shrugged. “I knew Neria Surana, apprentice mage. By the time she became the Hero of Ferelden, she was someone else entirely.”

“Oh,” said Kit, glumly, and fell silent.

But they’d already reached the narrow dirt-track road that branched off from the main Tevinter highway. Just two strips of bare earth, grass growing between, wide enough for a wagon or two horses traveling side by side. A few minutes later he glimpsed the water sparkling through the trees. The road continued past the lake and onto Honnleath, or the remains of Honnleath, but he stopped at the grassy clearing by the shore where the old pier still stood.

Water slapped the wood pylons of the pier, a gentle sound. A low mist had begun to form over the water, spangled with green lilypads. It was cool by the water, but not the hard chill of the Frostback mountains. This was gentle, soothing.

“We’ll make camp here,” he said, dismounting.

“We will?”

He nodded and reached for the saddlebags.

“I thought we had business to attend to?”

“Oh. Business.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “About that. I… lied.”

“You what?”

“I, ah, lied,” he said, trying not to shuffle about like a schoolboy. Failing. Failing abysmally.

Kit dismounted. He saw her feet, boots spattered with mud. Her calves and knees, shapely, clad in tight leather. And then her face, narrow-eyed and inscrutable, as she crouched down and inserted it between his eyes and the patch of grass he’d been staring at.

“Say that again.”

He frowned.

“C’mon,” she urged. “Confession is good for the soul.”

He frowned harder.

“Admit it. You have no morals to speak of—”

His chest tightened. “That’s not true—”

Kit snorted and stood straight. Snorted again… no, not a snort. She wasn’t about to sneeze. She was laughing.

“You have a cruel sense of humor,” he grumbled.

Kit shrugged and reached for her own saddlebags, working the buckles. “So we’re taking a trip down memory lane?”

“I—” Maker’s breath. She was right. He’d thought to bring her some peace and quiet, and instead he’d dragged her along on a trip he couldn’t have made himself. For _comfort_.

He was an ass. An absolute ass.

“I came here often as a boy,” he admitted. “This place was always quiet.”

“Go on.” She set the saddlebags on the ground, then the saddle and its tack. Moved over to his horse and repeated the task. “You liked the quiet?”

“I loved my siblings,” he said. “But they were very loud. I would come here to clear my head. Of course, they always found me eventually.”

“So you were happy here."

“I was.” He’d been so eager to leave. It had taken him a long time to realize how much he’d given up. “The last time I was here was the day I left for Templar training.”

Kit nudged the pile of saddlebags with her toe. “Is there a brush for the horses in here somewhere?”

“What? Oh—you shouldn’t have to—let me—”

“I want to. Just find me the brush.”

He dug it out of his saddlebags and handed it over. She rubbed the bristles against her thigh, scattering dust and hair. He shrugged out of his surcoat, leaned against the pier.

“So you’ve come here to close the circle?” Kit began to work the brush over his horse’s flank in quick, short strokes. It seemed a familiar task; she must have gotten used to the chore as she traveled. “You left your home to become a Templar. Now you’re not a Templar anymore and you’ve come home.”

“I… suppose.” He paused. “That’s the first time you’ve said anything to acknowledge that I left the Order.”

“Is it?”

“You usually tell me that I’m deceiving myself. That nothing I do will make a difference, that I can’t change and I’ll never be able to”—he breathed out through his nose, heart sinking—”escape.”

“You shouldn’t listen to me,” she said flatly.

“Kit?” He shoved away from the pillar and took hold of her shoulder, gently. Pulled her around to face him while the horse stamped and tossed its head, complaining. “You’re angry at me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He didn’t contradict her. Simply waited.

It didn’t take long.

“Why are you doing this?” She shrugged his hand off of her shoulder, pushed him away. “Why did you agree to these negotiations? Why did you bring up my idea about the Templars? Because I know you can’t stand the idea of mages being free, and if you won’t fuck me—”

He clapped his hand over her mouth. Let go, slid his hand around to cup the back of her head and pulled her close. Tight against him, squeezing an arm around her waist, until she began to relax.

Until very recently—until the Temple of Dumat—he would have taken her at face value. At Adamant, after they’d… well, _after_ … he’d believed she’d taken what she wanted and washed her hands of him.

But she was protecting herself. During their scouting mission to the Western Approach, he’d watched her skitter away from camp and followed her into a cave where she’d retreated to dress her wounds. In private, like a feral animal. She’d been huddling on the floor and when she’d heard him, she’d tucked her hand between her legs, tried to hide it from view. Did he think she’d behave any differently with her heart?

She didn’t trust him—he _knew_ that—and yet he hadn’t put the pieces together.

A hard pellet landed on the top of his head. A hard… _wet_ … pellet. Of rain. Maker’s breath. It would rain on them, wouldn’t it? To properly cap off the failure of his romantic getaway.

“I forgot to bring a tarp to put under the tent,” he said into her hair.

“So?” she asked, her voice muffled by his chest.

“The ground will turn to mud.”

“So we’ll sleep on the pier.”

He laughed softly. “The wood’s half-rotten. It’ll be soaked.”

“We…”

“If you have a solution, let me know.”

She lifted her head and met his eyes. “We could keep each other warm?”

He hesitated.

She saw it, and began to pull away.

“Wait,” he said, reining in the urge to hold her in place. And then, when she did as he asked, he wished she hadn’t. “You know I was in Kinloch Hold when it fell,” he began.

She nodded.

“I was captured by a desire demon,” he said. “She offered me many temptations, and when I refused… she punished me. Harshly.”

He really had made this all about him. His childhood, his family. And now this sordid episode from his youth—the moment that had changed him. That had ruined him.

“Since then”—he forced the words though they didn’t want to come—”I find I must understand”—he squeezed his eyes shut—”that is, be very clear about”—it had never seemed _cold_ to him before, but then, he’d been on lyrium—”exactly what is taking place. With a woman.”

Kit cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

He gave up. Turned his back on her. The rain began to fall harder, made cold tracks down his neck. “I can—I _am_ capable. You know that. And I enjoy… pleasures of the flesh. But”—He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_ —“You must understand. The demon promised me love. And it was the one thing I knew she couldn’t give me.”

“So…” Kit sounded baffled. “You can’t have sex with someone you love?”

“I don’t _know_.” This was unbearable. Every word unbearable. “The closest I have ever come was with you and—”

And she had been _loving_. She had been warm and happy and tender. She had whispered vows and promises into his ear and he had believed them.

And then she had taken it all away.

“And now I remind you of the demon,” finished Kit.

He wanted to tell her she was wrong but the truth of it made him flinch.

“So not the pier,” said Kit. “I’ll go look for some shelter.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked on the words. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey.” Her hand landed on his back. Steady, demanding nothing. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you told me. It’s fine. And, um, this is still a nice place. I’ll be back in a few minutes and… this will all be fine.”

The hand lifted from his back. After a few seconds, he turned to watch her walk away, vanish into the trees. He remembered, with a vividness that made his mouth water, what she had looked like beneath him, her dark hair spread out on the pale stone, lips wet and parted, eyes shining. How she’d gasped when he entered her and then sighed, as though all her troubles had floated away, as though nothing bad could touch her so long as they remained connected.

And then, inevitably, how she’d withdrawn. The venom in her eyes when he’d visited her after the battle. Lurking behind those memories were other, older ones: pain that lanced through his bones with such intensity that he clawed at his own flesh; a headache that pounded at the inside of his skull and kept him from sleeping, even after days had passed. Water that he could not drink, food that he could not eat.

She didn’t trust him, and he wanted to change that. He didn’t trust her, and he didn’t know if that could ever change. It might be too late; and he too ruined.


	58. make an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'

If someone had asked her, “Hey, Kit, what’s a good way to tell someone you just want to be friends?” she would never, in a million years, have thought to answer, “First, arrange to spend some private time by a romantic lake.” 

Admittedly, she’d done most of her romancing in a Circle—and calling it “romancing” was _quite_ the euphemism. Maybe normal people did this all the time. Maybe this was what they considered “mature” and “reasonable” behavior. 

But really? _Really_? The mist and the lilypads and ‘let’s not have sex ever again’? It was so awful it was funny. 

Not that she was laughing. 

Because she’d asked for it, hadn’t she? At every step along the way, she’d made choices assuming that they’d have no future together. And now, as a result, they had no future together. Funny how that worked. So, yeah. She’d made her bed, she’d lie in it. That was her new motto and so far it was _no fun at all_. 

She wasn’t really sure she _could_ be friends with Cullen. She wasn’t reasonable about him. She wanted him so badly it hurt. And… well… take away the lust and what did they have in common? 

He was well-mannered and orderly and _good_.

She was rude, disruptive, and amoral. 

She liked him. She _admired_ him, more and more all the time. Being near him made her feel good… and this line of thought was not helping at all.

Kit ducked under an ancient pine and pulled the thong out of her braid. She finger-combed her hair until it was evenly damp and then tied it back in a loose ponytail. The rain wasn’t particularly heavy, but she’d been tromping around in it for long enough to transition from ‘wet’ to ‘soaked’. Her sweater had absorbed several pounds of water, and enough moisture had seeped through the leather soles of her boots that her wool socks were starting to squish with every step. 

Enough navel-gazing. She needed to focus on finding shelter.

The ground was pretty rocky, which thinned out the trees. That meant fewer dry spots, less firewood. There must be caves in the area, but she doubted she’d happen across one one by accident. 

She’d have to get creative. Wards? Barriers? She could figure something out, but it would be easier if she had dry ground to work with. Dry- _ish_ , at least. With a shudder, she set out again—maybe in the lee of a hill? 

It’s not like they’d ever been a couple. She couldn’t lose something she’d never had, right? And whatever bizarre, normal-person ritual she’d gotten caught up in, it seemed clear that he still wanted her in his life. That he wanted to be close, even. 

Oh, fuck it. If he wanted a friend she’d try to be a friend.

She found a promising spot, tucked between a steep hill and a large granite outcropping, sheer on three sides. The ground was a little softer and a stream ran close by, so the vegetation grew thicker, the trees clustered densely enough to catch most of the rain. 

In fact, the trees gave her an idea. 

Kit hurried back to Cullen, who was sitting on the pier skipping stones. He’d draped his surcoat over the saddlebags and tack, leaving himself unprotected. He seemed smaller without that great furry mantle; or maybe that was just the stoop in his shoulders, the sorry mess of waterlogged curls on his head. He looked like a lost little boy… as much as it was possible for a large and superbly fit man to look like a little boy.

“If you ruin this coat,” Kit called, “I am going to find you another and it will have twice as much fur.” 

Cullen started and dropped the stones in his palm. They fell between the boards of the pier and dropped into the lake, the splashes lost among the plashing raindrops. 

“It will have so much fur that you’ll have to hold great luxurious handfuls of it out of the way when you eat, like a dwarf who’s really proud of his beard.” Kit slung the garment in question over her own shoulders and picked up the nearest saddle. “Little bits of fur will poke into your nose all day. You will sneeze at inopportune moments.”

“I wouldn’t wear it,” said Cullen, standing up.

“I’ll order you to wear it.” Kit heaved the saddle onto the horse’s back and cinched it loosely, just tight enough to stay put for the short walk to the clearing. “I can do that, you know.” 

“You can certainly _try_ ,” he said agreeably. The boards creaked under his feet as he approached, helping her load up the horses without being asked. “Did you find something?” 

“I think so. You brought blankets, right?” 

“Of course.” 

“And rope?” 

“I never go anywhere without rope.” 

“I _knew_ I could count on you.” Kit grinned. “I found a nice spot that’s not far south of here. The ground’s a little softer, the trees a little thicker. It’s pretty dry, with good protection from the wind.” 

She took her horse’s reins; Cullen did the same and fell into step beside her, close enough that they bumped into one another now and again as they walked. The surcoat she still wore mostly smelled like wet dog, but she could catch hints of cologne and musk if she buried her nose in it. Which she did, more than once, but surreptitiously.

“You like being out-of-doors,” he said.

Kit nodded. 

“It shows.”

“That’s… good?” 

“It was the first thing I noticed about you. Aside from being a mage, I mean. And, well, angry.” He coughed. “When you tried to escape from Haven and I fetched you back, I found all of your campsites. I slept in the fire wards you’d set, to catch the last of the warmth.”

Kit cast a dubious, sidelong glance his way. “Gee, Cullen. What a great memory.”

“You went sledding,” he continued. “Do you remember?” 

Did she ever. The wind had needled her face as she hurtled down the hill. Her stomach had flown right up to her throat. Near the bottom, she’d smacked into a rock, catapulted off the makeshift sled, and gone tumbling through the snow until she was soaked and bruised and laughing like a loon. “I do.” 

“On a Templar’s shield.” 

That had been the best part. “Uh-huh.”

“I made a pyre for the Templar. Laid him to rest.” 

 _Of_ _course_ he had. Bloody noble-hearted fool. “That sounds like you.” 

She threw a curious, sidelong glance his way. Usually, even a hint of a personal question was enough to make Cullen clam up and flee. But all day he’d just been… telling her things. 

Had he ever talked to her this way before? At the Temple of Dumat, maybe, but he’d been trying to drive her away then. This was different. 

They arrived at the little protected clearing she’d found. Kit gave Cullen a minute to pace around, examining the appointments. 

“We might have trouble if the rain keeps up all night,” he pronounced, “but I don’t think I could have asked for better.” 

Kit grinned. “I haven’t told you the best part.”

“Oh?” He half-smiled at her, one eyebrow lifting, the scar tugging at his upper lip…

Friends. They were going to be _friends_. And friends surely did not have unclean thoughts about one another’s scars. 

“Hammocks!” Kit exclaimed, somewhat _too_ enthusiastically. “I’m going to make hammocks!” 

“Hammocks? Kit…” He rubbed his nose. “Perhaps the blankets are sturdy enough to hold a lady. But not me.” 

“I can strengthen the fabric,” said Kit. “I can make one blanket strong enough to hold _ten_ of you.” 

“You can?” 

Kit nodded. 

“Well then…” He dug the blankets out of the saddlebags and handed them to her. “Show me how it’s done. You won’t mind if I watch?” 

“So long as you promise not to make any nasty comments about magic.” 

He nodded solemnly. Cullen-ly. “I promise.”

Kit shook out the first blanket, spreading it flat on the forest floor, then knelt beside it. 

“So, uh, do you want me to explain what I’m doing?” 

“If you don’t mind.” 

Kit glanced up at him, but he seemed sincere. Where was all this warm fuzzy niceness coming from? Was he just _that_ relieved to be excused from having sex with her? 

She’d made her bed. She’d lie in it. 

“Okay, so…” Kit cleared her throat. “One possibility would be a coating. Like a shell. The fabric wouldn’t matter—it would just be a frame, really, telling the spell what shape to take. That works, and with living creatures it’s the only option, but it’s inefficient.”

She ran her hands over the fabric, extending her senses—both mundane and magical—into it. “This is wool. It’s a spun fiber, so lots of thin filaments twisted tight into yarn. That makes it stronger, right? So I’ll work my magic into the thread itself. The structure of the yarn—those tight twists—will amplify what I put in. I exert half the effort and get many times the result.”

She concentrated, holding the image of what she wanted in her mind. A white glow enveloped the blanket and then dissipated. 

“Was that _spirit_ magic?” Cullen asked.  

“A barrier spell, actually,” said Kit. “And it’ll wear off, like a barrier spell would, but it’ll take a few weeks.” 

 _“Weeks_?” 

“Yeah… I mean, someone else could work a permanent change, I’m sure. But I’m no good at transmutation.”

“You misunderstand. I’m impressed. Can I test it?” 

“Sure.” Kit slapped the dirt off of the blanket and handed it up. “Try whacking at it with your sword.”

“I’m a trained knight,” he muttered. “What I do with my sword is not called _whacking._ ” 

“Okay. Do glorious battle with the blanket, Cullen. Slay it!” 

He dropped his arms and gave her a flat, displeased look.

Kit smiled innocently. 

He sighed. “You are incorrigible. What next?” 

“Oh. Now I cut the rope into four pieces. I’ll fuse the pieces to the short ends of the blankets, and then we’ll have hammocks.” 

It took longer to _tie_ the hammocks than it had taken Kit to _make_ them. Cullen made camp while she struggled with the knots, unloading the horses— _again_ —and building a fire.

She hung his surcoat to dry on a protected branch and he stacked his armor nearby, which left him in a pair of well-worn leather trousers and linen shirt so wet it was completely transparent. The weave of the shirt was thin and coarse enough to reveal _everything_ —the rosy pale color of his skin, his bulging biceps, the exact size and shape of his nipples. 

Kit quietly cursed every single deity she could name. If she ever stormed the throne of the gods, it would be for the sole purpose of _throttling the lot of them_. 

Cullen unpacked a simple meal: bread, cheese, olives, apples wine… it all tasted like dust to her. 

Chewing should not be sexy. But Cullen took small bites and he chewed them for longer than she did and made the whole process seem ceremonial and important. 

All that dignity had to be unnatural. 

And then—as if she hadn’t suffered enough—he lay down on his side in front of the fire, head propped on his hand and one leg cocked. He had the air of a great cat, unselfconscious and effortlessly powerful, cast by the firelight in shades of bronze and copper. 

If she slept, she’d meet desire demons in the Fade. The slight spark of anticipation that followed this realization was… not good. 

“So,” said Kit, desperate to distract herself. “Do you think any of the other places you remember from your childhood might have survived the Blight?” 

Cullen poked at the fire with a stick. “Perhaps.” 

“We could try to visit them.”

“I wonder…” Cullen met her eyes. His were warm as honey in the firelight, heavy-lidded. “Would you go with me to see what’s left of Honnleath?” 

“Yes.” Kit nodded. “Of course.” 

 


	59. you can't go home again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I set up an all-fannish tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/everythingisbettercaramelized so if you're on tumblr say hello. Though, TBH, I've been on tumblr for years and still don't really understand it. It's very embarrassing.

There was nothing left of his home. Not a weed, not a brick. A few of the largest buildings Honnleath had been built on solid foundations and he could trace the outlines, feel the worked stone under his feet. 

But Honnleath had not been a grand town. Nothing remained of the wooden farmhouses, the tiny main street where the town’s few shops had clustered, the public square where he’d played tag and hopscotch. The darkspawn had streamed up from the south and left devastation in their wake—a land stripped not just of its human population but all life. All _possibility_ of life. 

Kit trailed along at his side. When he took her hand, she laced her fingers through his and squeezed. The tight knot of grief pulling at his heart eased.

“For quite a while, I thought my entire family had died during the Blight,” said Cullen. “My eldest sister, Mia, she tries to keep in touch but there was no time to write in the midst of all the chaos. By the time she’d settled down enough to send letter, though, I’d left for Kirkwall. She posted her letter to Kinloch, but after all that had happened the mail wasn’t a priority. They didn’t forward it on for months.” 

“It must have been wonderful to receive that letter, though.” 

That was more optimistic than Kit’s usual. But she’d been quiet all morning and very gentle when she spoke. If it had felt like pity, he’d have hated it. But it didn’t. It felt—like her hand through his did, supportive and patient. 

“I felt like I could live again,” he said. “Back then… you would not have liked me at that time. But finding out that my siblings lived, it was a gift. The Maker had mercy on me, and when He did, He reminded me that mercy is a virtue. I’d forgotten.” 

Kit kicked at a lump of Blighted earth until it cracked and split, scattering chunks of dry, almost baked-looking dirt. “You should be proud of yourself. To have lived through so much and come out the other side with any hope left at all. For yourself or anyone else.”

“You are kind to say so, but no,” Cullen countered. “Thanks to the lyrium, I didn’t feel any of it as keenly as I should have.”

“It would have been easier to stay numb.” 

“Easier right up until I lost myself entirely,” he said. At his back, to the north, lay the Ferelden of his memories. But the land spread empty and dead all the way to the southern horizon. The darkspawn sowed poison everywhere they went. Neria had stopped their advance, but the damage they’d done couldn’t be reversed.

And this was what they called victory. Nothing gained but an end to the losses. 

“I’ve seen enough.” Cullen tugged her toward the treeline, where they’d left the horses hobbled in a meadow. Neither of their mounts would set one hoof onto the Blighted land. “We need to rejoin the rest of our party before we reach Denerim, but a group travels at the speed of its slowest member, and those wagons move at a snail’s pace. We could spend another night by the lake and catch up easily.” 

“Maybe, um, an inn?” 

“If you like. I thought you’d prefer the lake. The weather’s clear today. We could sleep in the open, under the stars.” 

She walked silently at his side for a minute. Finally, without any enthusiasm, she said, “Sure. Let’s do that.” 

He pulled her to a halt, searched her face. She’d seemed to enjoy herself the night before; she’d been lighthearted, in good humor. He’d begun to think that, despite all the setbacks, bringing her here had been the right decision. So long as he could talk to her, they had hope. 

But the circles under her eyes were deeper and darker than they’d been when they set out on this excursion. He reached up to trace the purpled, tissue-thin skin with his thumb, but she flinched away. 

“Sorry.” She smiled weakly. “My eyes are sore. I didn’t sleep very well.”  

“Is that why you want to move on?” 

“It is, actually.” She ducked her head. “But I’m glad we came. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but I can see it’s important. I’m… honored… that you would bring me along. That’s worth losing a little sleep over.” 

He stepped closer to her, licked his lips. If they started slowly, just a kiss, a hand on the outside of her clothes… need bolted through him, sudden and shocking. 

Kit matched his step forward with a step away, preserving the distance between them.

“I—” He faltered. “You can talk to me, you know.” 

“Bad dreams,” she said. “Not really your area of expertise.” 

Bad… _ah_. Not the sort of dreams he had. “I see. We’ll move on then, of course.” He began walking again, faster than before. Kit fell behind, unwilling to trot to keep up, so he had to look back over his shoulder to ask, “Does this happen often?” 

She made a face and slowed further. “Who’s asking?”

“What do you mean, ‘ _who_ ’?”

She clarified. “The man or the Templar?” 

He stopped short. “In this case, I’m not sure I can separate the two.” 

She drew even with him. “Well, I wouldn’t tell a Templar that it happened at all, so… I guess the answer to your question is no.” 

“How are we to protect you if you won’t come to us when you’re in danger?” He paced away, trying to get his temper under control, to keep calm. “If I hadn’t pressed, you wouldn’t have told me. We would have stayed, and you might have—” Just the thought made his blood run cold. “How can you be so _reckless_?” 

“Cullen,” Kit said, in that flat rattlesnake voice he hadn’t heard in weeks. 

It stopped him in his tracks. 

“You don’t get to do this with me.” 

“Do _what_?” He flung his hands in the air. “ _Protect_ you? Offer my _help_?” 

“You don’t get to carry on as though I don’t know myself or my limits.” She flung every word at him like a stone from a slingshot. “You don’t get to disregard my judgment. You don’t get to make my decisions for me.” 

Cullen sputtered. “I wasn’t doing _any_ of those things—”

Kit showed him her middle finger and continued past him.

He stared at her back, appalled, then jogged to catch up. “So tell me, then. What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to feel?”  

Kit sighed. “What would you say to a Templar who’d just come back from a difficult mission?” 

“I’d—” Cullen paused. “If he seemed troubled, I’d ask if he was all right. He might want to talk, but… he might not. I’d encourage him to visit the infirmary if he was the sort to avoid it, or to talk to a Revered Mother if I thought he needed guidance he didn’t want from me.” 

“Yeah,” said Kit, more weary than angry now. “More like that.” 

“I can see that that’s… better.” Cullen walked at her side for a few minutes, until the horses were in view. “I’m sorry.” 

To his surprise, she took his hand again. Laced her fingers through his, squeezed. And, just as before, he felt better. Lighter, unburdened. 

“You don’t need to apologize. You’re doing your best and your best is good enough. Better than good enough.”

“Oh.” A warm flush spread through him. “Do you mean that?”

She nodded, staring straight ahead. 

“I know that you’re strong,” he began. 

Kit snorted. “Don’t overdo it.” 

“I do,” he protested. “But I care about you. I can’t help—” He paused, phrased it as a request. “You could let me worry about you a little.” 

“All right.” She looked up at him finally. He wasn’t sure what to make of her expression, as wry as it was warm, dark humor lurking in her pitch-black eyes. “If it will make you happy, knock yourself out.”

He laughed softly. “I’m not sure happy is the word.”

“You’re a man of strange tastes, Cullen Rutherford.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Well. Thank you for your patience.” 

“Let my accepting and non-judgmental attitude serve as an example.” 

“Shameless,” he muttered.

She grinned. 

The horses nickered as they arrived in the meadow. Cullen gave his a warm stroke and bent to unbuckle the leather hobble. Kit did the same for hers, and he tucked them neatly away in the saddlebags. 

“Will you tell me… as a friend this time… does it happen often?” 

“You mean, do I meet demons in the Fade very often?” She shrugged. “The Fade is the Fade. It’s never empty. But stuff that would have thrown me for a loop when I was a kid doesn’t faze me anymore. Cole says that spirits don’t learn, which explains a lot. The same tricks, the same temptations, over and over again…” She shrugged. “Eventually, it’s not a struggle anymore. It’s routine.”

So… yes. It happened often. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. He hated to know that she was in danger, that she was struggling, and that he could only sit by and hope for the best. “And last night?” 

“Was one of the bad ones. Those are rare.”

“If there’s anything I can do…” 

“Moving to an inn really would help,” she said. 

“And away from this Blighted land,” he added, wondering if this, too, was his fault. He’d brought her here, hadn’t he? “The demons must be dawn to it.” 

“Yeah, could be,” she said noncommittally. 

“You don’t think so?” 

“I think we’re wasting time.” She fitted her foot into her stirrup and heaved herself into the saddle. “Denerim is waiting.” 

 

 


	60. the royal house of Theirin

Kit would have been more impressed with the Royal Palace in Denerim if she hadn’t been living in Skyhold for the past few months. Skyhold was larger, grander, and, well, more _mysterious_. The Royal Palace in Denerim was very _Ferelden_ , straightforward and a little old-fashioned. Even with trumpets blaring and armored knights standing at attention, the place was more cozy than intimidating.

They all wore court dress. Which meant Josephine looked as she always did, Leliana appeared younger (how old was she, anyway?) and almost approachable, and Cullen in a vaguely military coat and trousers was so mouth-wateringly handsome that Kit got angry every time she glanced his way. 

But then, after a week of fending off a very persistent desire demon in her dreams—a demon who wore Cullen’s face and Cullen’s body, spoke with his voice-she was feeling rather raw. 

King Alistair greeted them in his throne room, sitting straight and stern on an oversized gilded chair, though he abandoned it before the herald had finished announcing them. He met them halfway across the room and snatched Leliana into an enthusiastic bear hug, lifting her off the ground and swinging her from side to side.

Leliana _giggled_. 

“It’s good to see you, Leliana.” The King set her down and faced the rest of their party. He had the build of a warrior, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, and an athlete’s loose, balanced posture. Add to that a King's easy confidence and _good grief_ but the man practically melted her into a puddle on the spot.

“Though when I invited you to visit I admit I’d imagined something a little less… formal.” 

“You asked for help,” said Leliana, hooking one hand around the King’s elbow and leaning against his side. “Did you think I’d send anything less than the best?”

“I almost believe that.” King Alistair narrowed his eyes. _“Almost_. You may as well introduce everyone.”

“Of course. This is my dear friend Josephine Montilyet, the Inquisition’s chief diplomat…” 

Josephine curtseyed. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Majesty.” 

“And a pleasure.” Smoothly and without hesitation, the King kissed both of her cheeks in the Antivan style. 

“And Commander Cullen, who oversees our armies…” 

Cullen bowed. “Your Majesty.” 

Alistair turned a wry grin on Cullen. “Oh, have you forgotten my name?” 

“No, Your Majesty, of course not.” 

“Because if you’ve forgotten, I’m sure I could refresh your memory,” Alistair continued. “Like, say, do you remember that time when old Ser Laran said that if we’re afraid to stand naked in the Maker’s sight…”

“Please don’t,” blurted Cullen.

“Or what about when we had to muck out the privies together and I dared you to—” 

 _“Alistair_ ,” Cullen exclaimed, a note of panic in his voice.

The King grinned and pulled Cullen into a hearty, back-thumping sort of half-hug. “Was that so hard?”

“Of course not.” Cullen’s shoulders dropped a notch, tension draining away at the warm welcome. “Only it’s been a while and I wasn’t sure…” 

“I didn’t realize you were acquainted with His Majesty, Commander,” said Josephine.

“I never became a Templar but I did most of the training to become a knight,” said the King. “And for most of it they had me bunking with Cullen, here, in the vain hope that his good example would rub off on me.”

“It didn’t work,” muttered Cullen. “At all.”

“I definitely memorized more of the Chant than I would have if I hadn’t had to listen to you recite it every night.” 

“Whereas I just listened to you snore,” said Cullen. "Loudly."

 _“Snore_? It’s going to be like that, is it? I’m sure either of us could tell many embarrassing stories…”

“But we won’t,” finished Cullen.

“Of course not,” Alistair agreed, and winked broadly. 

Kit found herself grinning at the man despite herself. She’d noted the laugh lines etched around his mouth and eyes when they first met, in Redcliffe, but he’d been stern and impatient and frankly _terrifying_ then. Here, in his home, his eyes twinkled with humor and the smile never entirely faded from his lips. 

“Especially the one about the nugs,” said Cullen. “I’d hate to bring that one up, but if we’re reminiscing…”

“So, Leliana!” The King clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly. “You haven’t finished the introductions.” 

“I believe you’ve met Fiona, the former Grand Enchanter…”

Fiona, just as she had at Redcliffe, seemed struck dumb by her proximity to royalty. She bowed low without speaking a word. 

“And this is the Inquisitor, Katherine Trevelyan.” 

Kit curtsied shallowly, as Josephine had instructed.

“You look familiar,” said King Alistair. “Have we met?” 

“Um…” Kit coughed. “Once, yes. In Redcliffe?” 

“At Redcliffe?” The King raised his eyebrows at Leliana, who looked blandly back. “Well. It’s nice to meet you. Again.”

He offered his hand and Kit let him fold hers into a hearty shake. He was so _tall_. And so _friendly_. 

“Properly this time, that is,” he added, with a broad, earnest smile.

Just then a door at the back of the hall swung open and a supremely elegant woman glided into the room, so smooth and poised in her carriage that she might as well have been on rollers. Slim and blond, she surveyed their delegation with unblinking, icy blue eyes the like of which Kit had only ever seen once before—on Loghain Mac Tir. 

So. That would make the woman his daughter, Anora. The Queen.

A child trailed in the Queen’s wake. Thin and dark-haired, with a narrow jaw and a prominent nose, she looked to be about six or seven. She wore a formal gown in the Ferelden style, modified to suit a child. Dark velvet and fur with a high waist, little touches of gold embroidery on the sleeves. 

Fiona made a soft, choked noise.

“Please excuse our late arrival,” said the Queen, drifting to a halt at the King’s side. “We were hearing disputes all day and the last one took more time to resolve than expected.” 

“They talked and talked and talked and _talked_ ,” said the child, rolling her eyes. 

King Alistair smothered a grin with his hand.

“Anora.” Leliana extended both arms and clasped hands with the Queen. “It’s been too long. And this must be…” 

“This is our daughter Rose, yes.” Anora released Leliana and gave the girl a little nudge between her shoulderblades. 

Rose dipped into a shallow curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, messers. Welcome to Denerim.” 

Leliana began another round of introductions, same as the first, except that Fiona spoke this time. In a thick voice, her accent heavier than Kit had ever heard it, she said, “You have your father’s eyes,” to the little princess. 

“And her father’s _nose_ ,” added the King. “Prominent noses on both sides of the family, though. No escape from that one.” 

“It’s dignified,” said Rose, very seriously.

“Indeed it is,” Fiona agreed. 

“A good nose commands respect,” added the princess.

Fiona smiled. “Is that so?”

“That’s what my grandpa says,” replied the princess. “Are you Orlesian?”

“I am,” said Fiona.

“Can you fix my dollhouse?” 

Fiona blinked. “Can I do what…?”

“Rose, darling, just because the dollhouse is Orlesian doesn’t mean that every Orlesian we meet can fix it,” said Anora. 

“I can ask, can’t I?” said the little princess. “You _said_  that if we met any Orlesians you would let me ask.” 

“We didn’t think she’d meet any Orlesians,” said King Alistair, in an undertone. “Trade’s dwindled to nothing since the war started.”

“I might be able to help,” said Kit.

Princess Rose cocked her head to the side and then clucked her tongue. “You’re not Orlesian.” 

“No, but I’ve made dollhouses before.”

“It’s a very _nice_ dollhouse,” explained the princess. “With furniture and wallpaper on the walls inside and stone on the outside and little mirrors with little gold frames and—”

The Queen gave her daughter’s shoulder a tap. “Now, Rose, if you’d been listening you’d know that you’re speaking to—”

“Kit’s fine,” said Kit. “I’m a pretty good carpenter, Your Highness. I’d be glad to take a look at your dollhouse.” 

The girl rocked up onto her toes and then back onto her heels. “All right. Let’s go.” 

“Right now?” Kit turned to Josephine for help. She had a feeling the King and Queen of Ferelden wouldn’t want a strange mage wandering the castle with their daughter. “That is, maybe we could arrange a time?” 

“Why don’t I escort you?” Anora offered.

Josephine winced and Kit swallowed a lump in her throat. What had she gotten herself into?

“That would be lovely,” she said weakly.

Kit and Anora walked side by side in Rose’s wake; the girl kept skipping ahead and then turning around and tapping her foot impatiently.

“So, Your Highness,” said Kit. “How did your dollhouse break?” 

“I was playing Grey Wardens with my papa and he was the archdemon,” said the girl. “He stepped on it!” 

“Ah.” Kit pictured the King’s sizable foot. He'd probably reduced the thing to matchsticks. “That sounds serious.” 

“He was flying, like this…” The girl spread her arms wide and zoomed down the hallway. “And he said, ‘Then it landed on the top of Fort Drakon!’ and went like _this”_ —the girl crouched, gathering strength, and then jumped a good two feet through the air—”right onto my dollhouse! And the roof fell in! And one of the floors collapsed!” 

“Just like a real archdemon, it sounds like,” said Kit.

“He’s a good father,” said Anora, quellingly. “While we’re on the subject of fathers, I’ve been told that you were with mine when he died.” 

Kit nodded. “I was.”

“I’d like to hear what happened.” 

“Of course.” Kit nodded. “I’ll tell you what I can, but there’s a great deal I don’t remember.” 

“Don’t remember.” Anora snorted and her voice dropped to a low, savage tone. “So much of what we are asked to believe about this great battle is absurd. Grey Wardens controlled like puppets? The Warden-Commander of Orlais leading a blood magic ritual? And yet when we press for details, your diplomats are unwilling to explain.” 

Kit took a deep breath. She would not antagonize the Queen. She would not antagonize the Queen. She would wrap herself in a mantle of unflappable calm and count to ten. Twice. Then she exhaled slowly and asked, “What do you want to know?” 

“You might start by explaining why couldn’t deliver a body for us to burn,” said Anora. 

“We fell into the Fade—”

“By accident, is that right?” Anora flung her hands up in the air. “You just fell in! And, miracle of miracles, everybody came out alive except for the one man who’s been dodging assassination attempts for most of his life.”  

“You seem very attached to the story you’ve made up,” said Kit.

Anora narrowed her steady, unblinking eyes at Kit. “I’ve heard you were often at his side, Inquisitor. A lowly mage lifted to high station the very moment my father dies at your side.”

“There is a connection, but not the one you’ve guessed,” said Kit. “It's true that I wouldn’t be the Inquisitor if I hadn’t had his help. That I wouldn’t be _alive_ if I hadn’t had his help. If it had been up to me, I would have died in his place…” 

“But it wasn’t?” 

“We fell into the Fade,” Kit said again, then paused. Anora didn’t interrupt this time, so she continued. “We were on a platform overhanging the Abyssal Rift and it collapsed. I opened a rift as we fell; it was the only alternative to certain death. I transported us into a region ruled by a nightmare demon. It paid a lot of attention to me, because of this”—Kit peeled back the glove over her Marked hand. Green light spilled onto her wrist, shifting and undulating like light reflecting off of water—”and I was susceptible. Your father held me up when I couldn’t go on. After a point, that’s all I remember. Leaning on his shoulder.” 

Anora held silent, her eyes burning with intensity.

“We encountered the demon itself before we could escape,” said Kit. “I’m no tactician, so I can’t say whether we made the right decision. Loghain and Hawke—Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall—both thought that, even if we could defeat the creature, we’d lose too many lives doing it. They believed that someone ought to stay back to distract the demon, allowing the rest of us to escape. They both volunteered; I did as well.” 

Anora's lips thinned. “Very noble of you.”

“I was not in my right mind, as I’ve mentioned,” Kit returned. “The only person who really knows what happened next is Hawke. I didn’t even hear it from her directly; only third hand. Your father hit me over the head—”

“He did not!”

“And threw me at the Champion,” Kit continued. “Hawke had no choice but to carry me to safety while he engaged the demon.” 

Anora was silent for a moment. “That does sound like him.”

They reached a room full of child-sized furniture and toys. Right by the fireplace stood a little table with a little tea set. Books filled half a dozen shelves built low to the ground, within a child’s reach, and a miniature easel rested on a canvas tarp by the window.

“I hope you haven’t exaggerated your proficiency,” said Anora. “We _have_ spoken to every master craftsman in Denerim.”

The princess ran to a door and opened it, revealing a cluttered closet. More toys, many of them suited to a baby, along with stacks of linens and a handful of tight-lidded wooden boxes filled the shelves. 

A gigantic model of the Royal Palace sat on the floor of the closet, the turreted roof of the tallest tower standing almost five feet high. 

Some dollhouse.

“Help me get it out,” said Rose, getting down on her knees and tugging futilely at the massive model castle. 

Kit knelt beside Rose, but Anora called a pair of guards into the room. They lifted the castle and shifted it out of the closet into the center of the room. Then they saluted Rose—who beamed at them—and left. 

Kit circled the thing. It was nearly as wide as it was tall, so large that it opened in sections. Flipping back a latch freed a whole section of the model castle’s wall to turn on a hinge, revealing some section of the interior—all very detailed, just as Rose had said. 

One of these sections had been entirely crushed. Considering the extent of the damage, Kit would have believed that King Alistair had been wearing snowshoes while he played with his daughter. Fixing it would be no small challenge.

“What about materials?” Kit asked. “All of this is very fine. Rare woods, mother of pearl, gold leaf…” 

“We have the materials,” said Anora. “That’s no trouble.”  

“Then I can fix your dollhouse.” 

Rose’s jaw dropped. “You can?”

“I’m pretty sure, yeah,” said Kit. 

“Pretty sure?” Rose glanced up at her mother. “Is that bad?”

“It sounds good to me,” said Anora. “I think we should let her try.” 

“All right.” Rose nodded. “You can try to fix my dollhouse.” 

“And what do we say?” Anora prompted.

Rose straightened and clasped her hands at her waist, eyes going wide. “Thank you, Messere Kit.” 

“Good girl.” Anora smiled at Kit. “Thank you for offering, Inquisitor. It seems you’ll be doing the royal house of Theirin a great service.” 

 


	61. warming up

After Anora, Kit and Rose had left, Alistair scratched at his neck and asked, "So, um, is the Inquisitor one of those people who thinks she’s good at everything when she’s not? Because Rose is really, really fond of that dollhouse and if she gets her hopes up for nothing I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“She’s quite skilled,” said Josephine. “Recently, she gifted me with a selection of decorative doorknobs that she’d carved herself. They’re beautiful.”

Apparently Kit had been right about Josephine and the doorknobs. That was the first unforced compliment Cullen had ever heard Josephine make about her. 

Alistair tipped his head to the side. “Decorative doorknobs? That’s… a thing?” 

“I’ve seen several fine examples in this palace,” said Josephine. 

“You have?” 

“Yes, in fact, right behind you.” Josephine pointed. “The door into this room seems to be gilded bronze with the knob molded into the shape of a mabari’s head?” 

“Huh. Ten years and I never noticed.” Alistair paused. “Looks just like Barkspawn, too.”

“I don’t know the full extent of Kit’s abilities,” said Cullen, “but I believe that children’s toys are one of her specialties.”

“She’s made quite a bit of furniture since we arrived at Skyhold,” said Leliana. “Most of it was, ah, _appropriated_ when she moved out of the mage dormitory but I thought the quality was quite good.”

“She makes most of her own clothing, as well,” added Fiona. "And has written several well-received articles about alchemical dyes."

She had?

“All the reports I get really focused on the, you know, fighting dragons and closing rifts,” Alistair said. “If you don’t mind my saying so, she doesn’t _look_ like she’s been touched by Andraste. I’m not sure what I expected, but probably less glaring and more glowing.”

“The glaring grows on you,” said Leliana.

“Especially when she’s glaring at someone else,” Cullen added.

“You know what?” Josephine nodded. “That’s actually true.”

"Something to look forward to, then!" said Alistair with false cheer. "Dare I ask what's brought you here?"

"We have serious matters to discuss, but why don't we see to your little problem first, hmm?" said Leliana. "My agents entered the palace with us. We'll have news for you soon."

"And in the meanwhile I'm afraid Anora's arranged a state dinner," said Alistair. "Apparently all the nobles feel left out if we don't bore them to death at these things on a regular basis."

They were shown to their rooms and given an opportunity to freshen up before the banquet. When Kit didn't show up, Cullen jealously wondered if--like a good chessplayer--she'd been thinking three moves ahead. The evening really was deathly dull.

***

Cullen woke with a start, one flailing fist slamming into a solid wall of flesh.

“Woah, there,” said Alistair’s familiar voice. “You, too?” 

“Alistair.” Cullen pulled his arms close to his chest, bowed his head. “I apologize.”

“Apology accepted. No harm done.” Alistair smacked him on the arm. “Now get up.” 

Cullen squinted out the window. Dawn, if that. “When did you start waking up with the sun?”

“Anora wakes up early. Not that she ever complained when I slept in. But she'd give me these _looks_ —and now Rose wakes up at some Maker forsaken hour. It’s hopeless. I know when I’m beat.”

He didn’t seem unhappy about it, either.

Cullen threw back the covers and levered himself off the bed, reaching automatically for the padded leggings and gambeson that he wore under his armor. He had the leggings halfway on before he thought to ask, “Court dress or armor?” 

“Armor.” 

His armor stood on a stand in the corner of the room and the king actually squired him as he fit it all into place, tightening straps and locking buckles that he couldn’t reach. But when he reached for his sword, Alistair said, “Leave it,” and waved him toward the door. 

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” he asked, following the king through the halls. 

“I’m dragging you out for morning drills. Sparring practice.” Alistair bumped into Cullen. “We’ll cross swords, give each other a few bruises, maybe eat some dirt. What better way to welcome an old friend?” 

“A royal treatment,” Cullen agreed.

“You think I treat all my guests this well?” 

“One can only hope.”

They reached a broad courtyard, grass and earth underfoot. A stable stood in one corner, grooms passing in and out. A few guards clustered by an open door; Alistair led him through it and into an armory. 

“Here.” He picked up two identical shields, two identical swords, and passed one of each to Cullen. “We’ll start on even footing.” 

They warmed up slowly, testing one another. Alistair had developed a direct, brutally efficient style. He used his body like a battering ram and kept close, absorbing strikes that—in a real fight—would have maimed him in order to achieve a killing blow. 

If Cullen hadn’t spent so much time fighting Qunari in Kirkwall, he’d have been quickly outclassed and beaten. But he _had_ tested himself against the Qunari, all of them bigger and stronger than he, taller and with longer reach.

He’d learned to fight like a runt. To dodge when before he would have held fast, weave when before he would have charged. 

They were surprisingly well matched. 

Within an hour, he was drenched in sweat but finding his second wind, blood pumping and preternaturally alert. After two, they were fighting in short five-minute bouts between ten minute stretches spent flopped on the bare ground, gasping for breath. 

“I’m done,” said Alistair, tossing his helmet aside and peeling off his breastplate. He sat down and began working the buckles on his boots, then gave up and lay down flat. “I think I could cook an egg on the soles of my feet right now.” 

“And to think, I was just about to say I was hungry,” said Cullen.

“Hungry for foot-eggs.”

“And now I’m never going to eat again.” 

“That’s a shame. Proud as I am of my country, I have to admit that breakfast really is the best meal of the day around here.” 

“That’s the nice thing about Skyhold,” said Cullen. “Ferelden weather, Orlesian food.” 

“Right,” said Alistair. “I think that calls for a state visit.” 

“If you don’t come to an agreement with Fiona, I wouldn’t suggest it,” said Cullen. “Lots of mages.” 

“No serious talk until after breakfast, it’s a rule of mine.” Alistair pointed at the sky. “Is that the Inquisitor?” 

“No, Alistair. That's a cloud."

“On the balcony, Ser Holier-than-thou.” Alistair jabbed his finger. “With her legs dangling over the wall like she’s got a death wish.” 

Cullen searched in the direction Alistair was pointing until he saw Kit. She’d wedged herself up against the wall of the castle and by the occasional flashes of light flickering around her hands, appeared to be carving at something. 

“That’s Kit,” said Cullen.

She waved at them. 

“Kit, is it?” said Alistair. “What’s she doing?” 

“Ogling us."

“Is she really?” Alistair peeled off his gambeson and swung it around in a wide arc before throwing it aside. Then he waved back. 

Kit threw up a shower of sparks, red and gold like the Ferelden royal crest. 

“Don’t encourage her." 

“Why not? She’s just being friendly.” Alistair rose up onto one elbow. “Unless she’s bothering you, I mean. I could clear the balcony.” 

Cullen glared up at the soles of Kit’s shoes. “No, she’s not bothering me.” 

“Are you sure? You seem kind of bothered.”

"She can ogle anyone she wants." And until a few days ago, that had mostly meant _him_. As much as he might have complained, he missed it now that she'd stopped. Rather a lot. "Why would that bother me?"

"i don't know, maybe because--" Alistair's eyes went wide. “Wait a second. You and a mage?” 

Cullen didn’t answer. 

“You!” Alistair laughed. “And a mage!” 

“We have some differences of opinion,” Cullen admitted. 

Alistair collapsed again, laughing. "Oh, Maker, I wish I could tell Neria about this. She'd die."

"I'd never hear the end of it." He wondered what Kit would have said if he'd tried to tell her--as he'd once told Neria--how nervous he was about standing guard at her Harrowing. Well... Nothing, obviously, except that she might have killed him for it later. "Do you know where Neria is?" 

"No," said Alistair. "It's been a long time since she let anyone keep tabs on her."

Cullen thought about that for a minute. "Good for her," he said, and meant it as much as he'd ever meant anything.

"The last time I saw you, you wouldn't have been able to say that."

"I know," said Cullen.

"Good for you," said Alistair, as gravely as Cullen had a moment earlier. "Now, since no one's come with eggs I guess we have to go inside to eat."


	62. wasted hours, before we knew

**10:00 am**

Leliana drifted into the breakfast room and sat down without picking up a plate. She tapped her fingernails against the table, the quiet, persistent  _click click_ regular as a metronome, until one by one everyone else had stopped eating. 

“My agents are reporting a great deal of suspicious activity,” she said. “I’m afraid that our arrival has alarmed the Venatori.” 

"We've poked the hornet's nest," said Cullen. 

“I’ll speak to Cauthrien,” said Alistair. “Double the palace guard.” 

“Quickly,” said Leliana. “If they decide to do something rash, we aren't likely to get much warning.” 

 

**11:00 am**

Kit used a pair of needle-nose pliers and a jeweler’s loupe to clip and twist a length of thin silver wire into a square grid. She lay the wire grid on a flat marble slab she’d treated with a modified barrier spell—like a thin film of oil, the spell would prevent anything from sticking to the stone surface—and filled each square with a tiny spoonful of enamel powder, alternating black and white. Once she fired it, she’d have a checkered floor for the dollhouse’s formal dining room.

“Are you really going to sit out all the meetings?” Fiona asked. She hovered in the doorway wearing rich mage robes, her short hair neatly combed and held in place with a gold clip.

Kit put down the pliers and slowly straightened, rubbing the small of her back. She’d been bent over one thing or another all morning, and not in the good way. 

“It’s not my place to negotiate for the mages.” 

“Don’t be petty, Katherine." But there was no heat to the scolding; Fiona wasn't even looking at her. Her gaze flitted from the child-size furniture to the toys to the sloppy paintings tacked to the walls, all Rose Theirin originals, many of them silly pictures of dragons. "You’re better than that.” 

“I am? That's news to me.” Kit half-smiled. “I’m no diplomat, Fiona. If you really want me to barge in and meddle, I will, but I thought you'd be glad I'm keeping out of your way. Are the talks headed in a worrisome direction?” 

“Not yet.” 

Just then Rose bustled into the room, wearing a sturdy cotton smock over a pretty green dress, her arms full. “I’ve got all the things you asked for,” the princess declared, setting a small stoppered jar filled with inky liquid on her little table. “Tincture of black lotus, powdered lyrium, ironbark chips, and seed pearls.” She arranged the items side by side in a neat row. 

“Well done, Your Highness,” said Kit. 

“Hello, Rose,” said Fiona. 

Rose looked up. “Good morning, Enchanter Fiona.” 

“How are you today?” Fiona asked. 

“I’m very busy fixing my dollhouse,” said Rose. “There’s a great deal of work to do.” 

“And you’re overseeing it all yourself?” 

“If I’m not here doing all I can, I don’t get to complain when I don’t like the results,” said Rose. 

Kit grinned. “This is a girl who’s got her priorities straight, hey Fiona?” 

“I'm impressed that you take your responsibilities so seriously, Your Highness. That's a quality that will serve you well in life.” Fiona straightened. “I don't want to get in your way, but I look forward to seeing what you accomplish together.”

 

**12:00**

"Cauthrien has the guard on alert," said Alistair, sitting at the head of a long table with his back straight and his hands half-curled into fists. "What else can we do? There must be something. I don't like sitting around and waiting for a bunch of maniacs to attack me." 

They'd gathered in a small meeting room, with the King and Queen's most trusted guards posted outside to keep spies out of earshot. Leliana's agents had crawled through the palace, hunting out spy holes, and declared this room safe. Like most of the palace, it was plain and square and reasonably luxurious.

"I can have my agents detain a few of the servants they've been monitoring," offered Leliana. "They haven't had enough time to know for certain if they're watching Venatori agents or simple household servants who have habits and vices they'd rather keep secret... almost everyone has habits and vices they'd rather keep secret. If we interrogate half a dozen or so, one of them is bound to be a Venatori; I trust my agents that much. But will we learn anything useful before they panic?"

"Patience, Alistair," said Anora, sitting opposite her husband. "The more time we have to prepare, the better off we'll be if something goes wrong."

"I hate being patient," Alistair complained. 

"I know," said Anora. 

King Alistair made a face at his wife; she smiled sweetly.  

 

**1:00**

Cullen wound his way through the royal family’s private apartments, following the slightly garbled instructions he'd gotten from Alistair. Kit had made a brief appearance at breakfast, bolting a few pieces of toast before scurrying away. 

Her dedication to this dollhouse was… admirable. 

He heard her voice filtering out of a room farther down the hallway he’d just turned down and, relieved that he hadn't gotten himself completely lost, headed toward it. 

“Check to see the chairs for the dining room are all the same size,” said Kit. 

“They’re just right,” said Princess Rose in her adorably grave voice. “What comes next?” 

“Now we’re going to stain them, to deepen the color a bit, and apply a protective seal,” said Kit. “Would you like to help? It’s just like painting, really. I bet you could do it.” 

Cullen paused just outside the door and listened. 

“What if I mess it up?” asked Rose. 

“If you mess up, I’ll make another chair.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure. It doesn’t take so long. And even if your painting isn’t perfect, you might want to keep the ones you work on. Every time you play with your dollhouse, you’ll feel good because you know you made part of it.”

Cullen shifted, flattening his back against the wall, trying not to make any noise. Kit's voice was warm and... respectful, without any impatience or condescension. He shouldn't be surprised. Circles were full of children. All the mages had to pitch in to teach them, care for them, give them some semblance of a family. She would have taught lessons; she would have attracted followers. 

“But they’ll be perfect if _you_ do it,” said Rose. 

“Only because I’ve had practice.” Some thumps and knocks followed this statement. Then a rattling, metallic sound. “Here. A brush and some scrap wood. You want to apply a thin, even coating of the stain, like this. Why don’t you try it?”

Back in Kirkwall, he’d taken babies born in Circles away from their mothers. Not many knights could be trusted with the task—some lost their nerve, others were too harsh. He’d done his duty even though the mothers wept and begged for just one more day, one more hour, one more minute with their child. He’d absorbed punches, fireballs, and curses without complaint. 

It wasn’t a task that anyone _liked_. He certainly hadn’t—he’d often found himself at the dispensary hours later, wheedling an extra dose of lyrium out of the sister on duty. He remembered feeling hollow, rattled, uneasy. Not _angry_. 

He was angry now. Kit was hardly the most maternal mage he'd ever met. He ought to have cared more, earlier, for the women who struggled against the prohibition, who lived in a constant state of grief, mourning the family they'd never have. But such was life: he was roused when he felt the sting personally, in his own heart. 

“Like this?” asked Princess Rose. 

“That’s good,” said Kit. “Do you see these dark streaks where the brush strokes overlap? We’re going to try to get rid of those. Show me how you dip your brush.” 

Cullen shoved away from the wall and retraced his steps, out of the family wing. In the mood that had taken him, he shouldn’t be in the same room as a child.

 

**2:00**

Kit carefully poured a thimbleful of silver nitrate over a wafer-thin pane of glass. She had just enough to cover the whole thing; once it set, she’d drain away the excess solution and use her spirit blade to slice the sheet into mirrors of different shapes and sizes. 

“Hey there, Rosey-Posey,” said King Alistair. “Guess who I just spoke to?” 

“Papa!” Rose beckoned her father into the room. “Come look!” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” said the King, though he obediently stepped into the room. “What am I looking at?” 

Rose pointed at a set of six three-inch-tall chairs for the dining room, all stained to a deep rich cherry. “I made these!” 

“You did?” asked the King. “Are you sure?”

“She stained them,” Kit said, looking up. “Did a good job, too.” 

“Did you? That's wonderful, Rosey,” said the King. “Did you pick the color?” 

“I did!” 

“It's a really nice color. You know what else would be wonderful?” 

“The dining room has a new floor, too,” said Rose, tugging at her father's velvet sleeve. “Let me show you, Papa.” 

“It would be _wonderful_ if you showed up to your lessons on time,” said the King, who didn't budge. “Master Sutter comes here just for you. It’s rude to make him wait.” 

“I can’t go see Master Sutter,” said Rose. “I have important work to do.” 

“You can come back after your lesson,” said the King. “But if you won’t go, I’ll have to ask the Inquisitor—”

“What’s an Inquisitor?” Rose interrupted.

“Kit’s fine,” said Kit.

“I’ll have to ask Kit to stop working for the day.”

“Maybe Master Sutter wants to help with the dollhouse,” said Rose.

“You can ask him,” said the King. 

“That means he’ll say no, doesn't it?” 

“That’s right, it does,” the King agreed. 

Rose dragged her feet all the way out of the room. 

“Thank you, by the way,” said King Alistair, before he followed his daughter out. “This is… actually really amazing.” 

 

**3:00**

Argent slipped into the meeting room and circled around to kneel between Leliana and Cullen. They'd run out of things to plan and prepare and settled in for a late lunch instead. Nobody seemed to be enjoying it.

“Bellamy has gone missing," whispered the spy, low enough that Cullen could only just make out the words. 

"When?" Leliana asked, just as quietly, her lips hardly moving.

“He was supposed to check in an hour ago,” said Argent. 

“Have Larsen and Yancy retrace his steps,” said Leliana. “If you don’t find him in the next hour, I want to know.”

 

**4:00**

“I don’t have any more lessons today,” said Rose, closing the door to the playroom behind her as she returned. “But if anyone else comes to find me, I’m going to hide in the closet and you can tell them that I’m not here and you haven’t seen me.” 

“No,” said Kit.

“Why not?” Rose asked. 

“Because I’d get into trouble if I did that.” 

“Master Sutter says that an Inquisitor is a foreign dignitary,” said Rose. “Foreign dignitaries don’t get in trouble for lying.” 

“They don’t?” 

“That’s what my mama says.”

“Your mother is a funny lady, Rose, but there are exceptions to that rule and I have a feeling this would be one of them. If I let everyone think you were missing when you were really hiding in the closet, I'd get in trouble." 

Rose considered that. “Maybe no one will come.” 

 

**5:00**

“One of my agents was just found dead,” said Leliana, sitting across from the Captain of the Palace Guard in her small office. It looked out on the training grounds where, even as they spoke, soldiers practiced their formations. “They discovered us much faster than I expected them to.”

“Dead?” Ser Cauthrien’s hand twitched toward her belt, though her sword stood propped on a rack by the door. “Where?” 

“In the wine cellar. Does that mean anything to you?” 

Cauhrien nodded grimly. “It means they’re probably using the tunnels underneath the city to get in and out of the palace." 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” 

“If I can think of anything, I’ll let you know,” said Cauthrien. Then, after a pause, she added, “Keep your knives sharp.” 

 

**6:00**

Anora shut the door to the bedroom she shared with her husband and breathed a deep sigh of relief. On the other side of the wood, the clank of metal-shod feet told her that her guards had fallen into place on either side of the door. Many of their guests warmed up to Alistair, if they gave him a chance. She had, though it had taken a while—too long, now that she was looking back on it. It was nice, for a change, to welcome people who didn't need to be persuaded. Who knew him and appreciated him.

Even so, she was exhausted. So much to organize. So much tension, building by the hour. And she couldn't even begin to make sense of the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, spending the day closeted with her seven-year-old daughter.

“It’s no use,” said Anora, showing her husband her back. “Rose is stuck to the Inquisitor like a burr, and for some reason the Inquisitor is perfectly content to toil away from dawn till dusk like a common laborer.”

“What’s she doing now?” Alistair asked, untying the laces that held Anora’s gown closed. 

“Making a new roof for the dollhouse, with tiles of silverite and mother of pearl layered over one another like fish scales,” said Anora. “Rose is gluing some of the tiles.” 

“So that means we have an hour before dinner…” 

“Mmhm,” Anora agreed. 

Alistair peeled the panels of Anora’s dress apart and held the heavy gown aloft while she slid her arms from the sleeves. “And no need to worry about Rose barging in on us?” 

“Oh,” said Anora. “ _Oh_. Why yes, it seems we do.” 

 

**7:00**

Alistair, Anora, Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen sat down to dinner in the palace's grand dining room; they took up about one-tenth of the table. A long runner of embroidered silk stretched the length of the table, about twenty feet by Cullen's estimation (his estimation in such subjects tended to be exact, however), hundreds of candles flickering on many-armed candelabra, a chandelier lit overhead and occasionally dripping wax onto the floor.

A sixth chair sat empty; Leliana had gone to fetch Kit and returned alone. To no one's surprise. 

A procession of servants entered the room, bearing shallow bowls of soup. Five servants, one for each diner, and they set the bowls down in perfect unison before retreating. 

Cullen swirled his spoon through the soup. A thin, opaque, pale-pink broth, with little bubbles of fat swimming on the top. He took a tentative bite. Fish. Well, it was better than camp rations. That was something. 

 

**8:00**

The last of the plates were cleared away and replaced by small, cut-crystal glasses. The butler uncorked a bottle of sweet berry wine and a footman set out a single plate of shortbread cookies and candied fruit. 

About halfway through the meal, Cullen had noticed that Leliana had left her wine untouched, drinking only water. Even after the day's talks, that had alarmed him, and he'd followed suit. So he was still mostly sober when the double doors at the far end of the dining room burst open. 

A fully armored knight stood in the doorway, his red-and-gold Ferelden tabard spattered with dark stains. Judging by the wet, labored wheeze of the knight’s breaths through his visor, the blood was his own.

“Healer!” Cullen shouted, kicking away his chair and rushing across the room.

He wasn't fast enough.

The knight dropped to his knees. He coughed, gurgled; trying to talk. A few drops of blood sprayed through the slits in his visor. Cullen grabbed the man's shoulder, just in time to feel the man go slack, his full weight bearing forward onto Cullen. Gently, he laid the man down and flipped up his visor. Wide, staring eyes; his chin drenched in his own blood. Dead.

Then, shaking his muscles out and reaching for the sword he'd left behind in his room, he eased over to the doors and looked into the hallway. One of the guards who'd been stationed at the door was dead; the other gone. And faintly, like far-off thunder, he heard fighting.

 

 


	63. in which things come to a head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello faithful readers. I'll be gonzo until sometime after Thanksgiving, but this is a long and kind of exciting chapter, so don't say I don't do anything nice for you. 
> 
> Happy holidays (if you celebrate, and if you don't, fist bump).

“Forget about the formal dinner,” said Leliana, herself already sumptuously dressed for said dinner in a violet silk dress that ought to have looked horrible on her but, of course, actually looked amazing. “I’m having something sent to you; Argent will deliver it. It’ll be cold but properly taste tested. If anyone else offers you food, don’t eat it.”

“Okay,” said Kit, though she was tired enough to have preferred a break. Crafting didn’t generally draw huge reserves of mana, but a long day left her drained. 

“You are not to let Rose out of your sight,” Leliana continued. “No matter what. If she’s using the chamber pot, I want you standing right next to her, listening in.” 

“So I’m in for a great evening. Or am I supposed to sleep in her room?” 

“You’ll stay as long as it takes. I’ll come back for you.” Leliana reached into a pocket and pulled out a half-dozen bottles of lyrium solution, glowing bright blue. “These are for you. They’re potent. And one last thing…”

Kit raised her eyebrows. 

“That is my dear friend’s only baby. If Rose dies, when you could have saved her?” Leliana stepped close and whispered in Kit’s ear. “I will _skin you alive._ ” 

Kit took hold of the spymaster’s slender shoulders and gently pushed her back to a comfortable conversational distance. “You can just ask, you know.” 

“That’s right, I could have. But I didn’t.” Leliana looked past Kit to Rose, murmuring at her dolls. “Some things are not negotiable. This is one of them.” 

Leliana vanished in a swish of silk skirts and Kit settled down for an evening of… nothing. Nothing except trying to keep an increasingly cranky child entertained. She tried games. She tried sitting quietly by while the girl paged through children’s books and drew a few pictures. 

She ate a cold dinner.

She was starting to feel pretty cranky herself when the door burst open. A man in a hooded black robe twirled his staff—his _staff_ —Kit was on her feet and casting a barrier before she’d processed it all properly. All the endless bloody skirmishes she’d fought had given her, at last, something like training, something like instinct. 

A great gout of fire shot from the staff and splashed, harmlessly, across Rose’s face. The girl screamed, a high wail that dwindled to a sob as she patted her cheeks, her forehead, not yet understanding that she hadn’t been burned. 

Kit lunged at the man, her spirit blade flashing into her hand in its familiar paring-knife shape and growing as she moved, lengthening into a wicked dagger which she used to slit the man’s throat. 

There. Assassination attempt averted and Rose was fine. Except… she leaned over the body and looked out the door, into the hallway. Ten feet in one direction, twenty in the other, three doors on each side of the hallway, hers included. The last time she looked, a pair of guards had been posted at each intersection. They were gone now. 

A door, two down and on the opposite side of the hall, opened. A woman wearing the same black robes as the dead man walked out, an identically dressed man following behind. 

“Get into the closet, Rose,” said Kit. 

“It’s dark in the closet,” said the girl in a wet, trembling voice.  

“Good. You won’t want to see what’s happening out here.” Kit skipped back from the threshold, dodging a fireball. She didn’t have time to talk it out. “You get right behind me, or you get in the closet. One or the other, right now, and I’d prefer the closet.” 

Rose hesitated, gave the dead man in the doorway a grave look, and shut herself inside the closet. 

Kit picked up the dead man’s staff, ducked out into the hallway, and froze the two Venatori solid. Then, before they could move again, she shattered them with a quick wave of kinetic force. That was Dorian’s trick, the one that had impressed her so much the first time she saw it in Redcliffe, and it really did work like a charm. 

But those two were followed by four, and then four more… Kit kept to the shelter of the doorway, laying offensive wards as fast as she could, rotating them with barrier spells. 

She got hit. Often. But she’d gotten into the habit of casting barriers over groups of four and now she could focus the spell entirely on herself. They held, even against concentrated fire. But her skin still felt… chapped was the word. Deadened. 

She needed help. She needed people who could pick up the slack when she flagged. Even if it were only one person, only a few seconds of rest… she downed the first of the lyrium potions that Leliana had left behind. 

Kit hated using lyrium to cast. It kept her going past the point of exhaustion, yes, but at a cost. Like the potions couriers sometimes took to keep running for miles after their muscles had turned to jelly, lyrium stimulated rather than refreshed. 

And it burned. Burned in her throat, burned outward from her belly into her bloodstream, tracing spiderwebs of pain out to her fingers and toes. But she’d had a long day, there were a dozen corpses in the hallway, and if the Palace Guard hadn’t come to flush out the invaders, it meant they were all dead or busy. So she uncorked a second bottle, downed it, and tried to ignore the pain. 

  

*****

  

Cullen stripped the dead guard’s plate and tossed the pieces in Alistair’s direction. Protecting the King had to be their first priority. Keeping _themselves_ alive came second. 

Killing the bastards who’d invaded the palace? Third, but he had a meticulous nature. He’d check every item off the list. 

If he lived long enough. The dining room opened onto a wide hallway, a row of windows on one side, blank wall on the other. Armed intruders swarmed in from either side. 

A flash of violet in his peripheral vision had him stepping aside, making room for Leliana. Using both arms, she lifted his shield high enough for him to see it. 

He bent and hooked his left arm through the straps, shrugging it into place just in time to crouch low and surge upwards, bashing the nearest Venatori and sending him sprawling. 

Leliana darted forward, stabbed the fallen man in the eye, and darted back.

“I had our weapons stowed in a rack underneath the table,” she said. “Hold them off while I bring your sword.” 

“I’ve got it,” said Alistair, on his right. 

Cullen raised the shield against a shard of ice hurtling through the air at an alarming speed, reached back to take his sword from Alistair, and then used it to parry an overhand swing from a plate-clad warrior, simultaneously slamming his shield down on the wrist of a sneaky dagger-wielding bastard going for his knees. 

“Now get back,” he shouted.

“I don’t think so.” Alistair shifted his sword from his shield hand to his sword hand and shoved Cullen to the side. 

Caught off guard, Cullen misjudged the angle of a block. A Venatori sword bounced off the edge of his shield; Cullen took a quick step back to dodge; the man froze as a crust of ice formed around his body and then an arrow sprouted from his neck. 

Cullen glanced behind him. Fiona’s staff sparked with green energy; Leliana held her bow at the ready. 

“This reminds me of the good old days,” said Alistair, pulling his bloody sword from the crumpling body of a lithe man in leather armor. “Sort of makes me feel nostalgic.” 

Cullen was not so sanguine. Standing side by side and shield to shield, he and Alistair could hold the door for hours. With Leliana and Fiona at his back, the lack of armor didn’t handicap him so much; he could focus on defense and count on them to cut his enemies down. 

But there were so _many_ of them. Six in that first wave and they kept coming, with no help in sight.

“I see a live one,” shouted Anora from somewhere close behind. “Give us a window to drag him through.” 

“Count of three,” Alistair called back.

“On three,” Cullen echoed. 

“One… two… three!” 

They pushed outward into the hallway, Cullen left and Alistair right, so that Anora and—judging by the flash of gold silk in his peripheral vision—Josephine could drag the wounded Venatori into the dining room. He took a blast of fire on his leg from one of the mages lurking at range, a deep burn that almost made him drop his shield. He stumbled back into the safety of the dining room, biting back a scream, and resumed his position. 

“Potion,” said Leliana, unnervingly close. She held it right to his lips. He opened his mouth and let her pour. It was awkward but necessary. With only one working leg he’d topple the second he took a serious hit. 

“I’ll get the mages,” she said, slipping past him into the corridor. She’d tucked the skirts of her dress into her belt, a pretty golden chain sitting low on her waist, and danced bare-legged past the warriors who lunged at her with swords, twisting and dodging with unnatural speed to avoid bursts of fire and ice. 

Void take him if it wasn’t one of the most impressive things he’d ever seen. 

“They’re going after Rose!” Anora shouted.

“They split their forces into three equal parts,” Josephine added, calm and precise as always. “One for each member of the royal family.”

Rose… and, with her, Kit. 

Cullen tried to imagine Kit standing alone against half as many as he faced in a group with two seasoned warriors, one of the deadliest archers on Thedas, a battle-tested mage and a pair of efficient helpers. She’d come a long way, but… 

Alistair went berserk. Leliana cut down the mages as the King surged into the hallway, and good thing because he wasn’t positioning himself for defense. Cullen followed as close as he dared, trying to guard his back. 

In short order, Alistair had cleared the hall. Brutally efficient and somewhat foolish, just like on the training yard. 

“This way!” Alistair pointed with his sword. He did not wait for anyone to follow before dashing down the hall. 

Anora moved cautiously into the hallway, holding a bloody dagger in one hand. Josephine followed after; she also held a dagger, but it was clean.

“I’ll take up the rear,” said Cullen, waving for Fiona and Leliana to go ahead of him. 

Most of the halls were empty. They collected a few guards along the way, each shouting reports about armed intruders, declaring some parts of the palace safe and others still in question. Alistair didn’t pause so neither did they, moving faster and faster until they were tearing from room to room.

Cullen heard Alistair’s cry, furious and anguished, before he turned the corner into the hallway where he’d stood earlier that day eavesdropping on Kit and Rose. He’d stared, the whole while, at a dull tapestry that now hung in singed tatters from the rod fixed to the wall. 

Corpses _carpeted_ the floor. 

They couldn’t avoid stepping on bodies as they picked their way toward Rose’s playroom. The closer they got, the more there were, like leaves blown into drifts and some of them just as brittle. Two and three deep, many of them black-robed and clutching staves, all of them… well. Magic didn’t make pretty corpses. 

His heart beat in his throat, a hard tight throbbing. He could hardly breathe and he didn’t want to see what lay ahead. Yes, she had killed many. But she’d had to battle all of these Venatori, one after another. All they had to do was send one more than she could handle alone. Just one, and that would be the end.

And who could survive against such an onslaught? 

Alistair froze in the open doorway. Anora paused at his side, covering her open mouth with her hand. And then Leliana, and then Fiona and Josephine, all five of them standing still as statues, shocked.

_What in the Maker’s name?_

He arrived last. Josephine stepped back so he could see inside. The room itself was pristine and so was the princess, not a smudge or a tear anywhere. She huddled at Kit's side, arms wrapped around Kit's hips, while Kit...

Kit leaned against the wall, clothes singed, soiled, and ripped, one hand on Rose's shoulder. All five fingernails had turned black; if she lived to see the morning, they'd fall off. Blood leaked out of one nostril. Her eyes were badly bloodshot, more pink than white. 

Signs, distinct and unusual signs, of a mage about to turn abomination. 

Cullen put down his sword and shield and stepped through the doorway, arms raised and palms out, moving at a snail’s pace. If he didn’t alarm her… though it was too late to make a difference, one way or another. 

She watched him come with dull, lifeless eyes. He’d nearly reached her, still not sure what he’d do—get her away from the princess, first of all—when her lips slanted into a lopsided smile. 

“Took you long enough,” she said in a voice so ragged it hurt his ears to hear it. But it was _her_ voice. _Her_ tone and _her_ words. 

“Maker,” he breathed, and cupped her face with both hands. She was hot to the touch, fevered. He kissed her brow and the skin, damp, salty, stung his lips. He kissed her cheek, her temple, her hair. “I thought I’d lost you.” 

“I don’t think I can stand on my own.” 

Andraste’s tears, that voice. So hoarse and thin.

“So hold onto me,” he murmured, kissing her neck, her ear, her chin. He wanted to touch every part of her. He wanted to rub himself on her so that she stank of him and anyone who tried to hurt her would know they’d have to go through him first. 

He kissed her lips and if she hadn’t been holding him, her hands curled round his wrists, he’d have floated away. Salt on her lips, and copper; the taste of pain. He would have turned around and savaged the corpses in the hallway, husks that they were, if she hadn’t been there, her hands on his wrists, two ropes tied to an anchor. 

 _His_ anchor.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said again, and shut his eyes to squeeze back the hot press of tears. 

A hard slap upside the head pulled him out of his trance. 

He tugged Kit closer, into the shelter of his body, before he turned to face… Alistair, holding his daughter propped on one hip while she clung to him like a monkey.

“There… is… a… _child_ … in… the… room,” said Alistair, very slowly and enunciating each word.

And, indeed, Rose was staring at him—well, at Kit and him—with her eyes open wide and her mouth hanging open.

“She’s seen enough killing today,” rasped Kit in her hideous death-rattle voice. “A bit of kissing might do her good.” 

“Kit. No.” Cullen bent to sweep his arm against the back of Kit’s knees and lift her in his arms. “My sincerest apologies,” he said to Alistair, before carrying her out of the room. 

His arms ought to have been tired. They weren’t. He felt—well, he felt like he could do anything, actually. It was marvelous.

“End of the hallway,” said Kit. “Left right right.” 

He dropped to one knee, picked up his sword where he’d propped it against the wall, and gave it to Kit to hold. Then he turned at her direction until he reached the door to her room. She shuffled the sword around until she had a hand free to turn the knob, he carried her inside and set her down on the bed. 

“I should fetch a healer,” he said, eyeing his sword. “But I don’t want to leave you alone.” 

She shifted to lie on her side, sending a small, glowing red bottle tumbling from one of her pockets in the process. 

“Where did that come from?” she asked. 

If she didn’t know? “Leliana,” Cullen answered, uncorking the potion and tipping it to her lips. 

“Fucking potions.” She plucked the bottle from his fingers and rose up onto one elbow, so she could swallow. “I hate them all.” 

She held the empty bottle to her eye, glaring at it, before rolling to lie on her back and heaving a great sigh. 

He pulled off her shoes and stockings—ten toes, none hurt—and then her trousers, skimming his hands from hip to ankle. Patches of bruised and blood-flecked skin cleared as he watched.

The shirt and sweater would have been harder to manage on his own, but the healing potion had done its work. She peeled the sweater off and tossed it to the floor, then braced the flat of her foot against his stomach, just inside his hip, to hold him in place. 

He took a slow breath, hands opening and closing, empty. He wanted to reach for her. He wanted her to be whole and well and he wouldn’t believe it until he’d touched every last inch of her body.

“Let me stay.”

Her foot didn’t budge. “Go on,” she said, and wiggled her toes. They were cold.

“Let me…” His gaze traveled up the graceful curve of her calf to the bend in her knee, all along the length of her thigh to the thin scrap of cloth that covered her sex. He licked his lips. 

She shifted, spreading her legs ever so slightly. A few inches, no more. He almost blacked out from want. 

“Maker,” he whispered. He was so hard it hurt. 

 _Let me make love to you. Let me love you_. He could have said it. He wasn’t afraid, he just didn’t know how she’d react. Odds were it would be bad, and… ah. Apparently he _was_ afraid. 

He shut his eyes. “Please.” 

Her foot shifted off of his stomach. The heel landed at the small of his back, nudging him closer. 

He let out his breath in a rush. 

He moved to join her on the bed, but no sooner had he sunk one knee into the mattress than she said, “You’ve got blood on your clothes.” 

“Void take the blood on my clothes.” He reached for the buttons of the formal court jacket he wore, fumbled with one, lost his patience, and ripped the thing open, sending little gold buttons flying. He shrugged out of it and peeled off his trousers, got them tangled up in his boots, bit back a curse. Andraste would not thank him for bringing her into this. 

Boots. He very nearly broke his ankle twisting them off, but they went. And then the trousers—finally—and then he was covering her, mouthing her breast through the thin linen shirt she wore, grinding himself against her, so desperate he groaned when she angled her hips to him.

“Your shirt,” she said, her voice stronger now, teasing.

“There’s no blood on my shirt.” 

She began to laugh, stroking up his back and tangling her fingers in his hair, the muscles of her stomach contracting as she curled up to press her lips to his shoulder, the shape of a smile a brand on his skin, breath still puffing with humor. And then she kissed him, a little burst of softness and heat, shoulder and neck, tongue darting out to stroke along the vein.

He reached between her legs, cupped and pressed, the thin cotton of her undergarment wet and sticky on his fingers. He sucked in a deep breath and—no. Enough with these blighted clothes getting in the way. He was not going to stop what he was doing for more undressing. He pushed the strip of cloth aside and plunged his fingers into the heat of her, warm giving flesh that parted and sucked. 

It was the best feeling he could imagine. The best except for what he was about to do next, but for now—the best feeling. So good that the wild urgency riding him subsided, like a wave that would come back bigger and stronger, revealing a deep and peaceful euphoria. 

He met her eyes, bright and clear again. “Tell me you want this.”

“More than anything,” she said dreamily.

 _More than anything_. But she’d said that before and it hadn’t been true. 

“Do you mean it this time?” 

She squirmed, tried to look away, but he was on top of her, on all fours, and he did not let her break eye contact. 

“Say it again.” He pumped his fingers inside of her and ground the heel of his palm against her clit. She gasped and bucked. “Say my name.”

“Okay,” she said, with suspicious obedience. “How about this? If there were a real Herald of Andraste—Herald of the Maker, whatever, it’s all bullshit—but if there were a real one, and she came down and told me that the Maker wanted me for his piece on the side, I’d say ‘fuck no, I’d rather have Cullen’.” 

Cullen froze. Had she really just said—? 

“If the Arishok walked up to me and said, ‘Hey, Kit, if you promise to stop fucking Cullen, we will put down our arms and return to Par Vollen, never to make war again,’ I’d say ‘Sorry, Tevinter,’ and climb you like a tree.” 

“You would _not_.” 

“I absolutely would.” She rolled her hips, pleasure and cunning at war in her expression. “If some particularly evil blood mage cast a spell that switched your cock and someone else’s, I’d love you just the same but I’d still go fuck the lucky bastard who got your cock. I wouldn’t even ask his name.” 

Cullen blinked. 

“I’d follow it from one end of Thedas to the other, like some hero of old. People would write songs about it.” 

“Kit?” 

“If I ever met a wandering elven god—”

“Kit,” he said again, somewhat more sharply. 

“What?” 

“Did you just say that you love me?” 

“No.” She began to squirm again. If she hadn’t been quite so, er, _pinned down_ he was fairly certain she’d have been out the door before he got another word out. 

“I think you did,” he insisted, as gently as he could. 

She went limp, except for the quick rise and fall of her chest. Shallow, rapid breaths. She was afraid; he’d gone too far, pushed too hard. Deluded himself, maybe.

And then, in a small voice, she said, “Would that be so bad?” 

 _“No.”_ He freed his hand so he could brace himself over her, holding up most of his own weight while lying skin to skin. “No,” he said again, nuzzling into her neck, nipping at the lobe of her ear, coaxing her to face him so he could kiss her properly. 

When she did, there was no reluctance. No restraint. She opened her mouth to him, tangled her tongue with his. She wrapped her arms around him, holding on tight. And somehow—it was so seamless he wasn’t sure which of them had made it happen—he was inside of her, rocking into her, harder and faster until she was panting again, no longer from fear, eyes glazed and hazy.

He grabbed her hand and shoved it between them, pressing it against her sex until she took the cue and began to finger herself. She was close, and he was holding on by a thread. He didn’t have the self-control or the patience to do his part. 

But he would. He would have all the patience in the world. And he would show her, in every way he knew how, that she was loved, and cherished, and safe. 

 

 


	64. baby steps

Kit woke with a start. Darkness, an unfamiliar room… but she’d heard something. She gathered cold around her fist as Cullen shuddered beside her, hard enough to make the bed creak and rock. 

“No,” he slurred, sucking air through his teeth. “Leave me!” 

A nightmare. Kit released the spell, tendrils of cold mist wisping from her fingers as her skin regained its color. Should she wake him? She reached out but didn’t touch; she reminded him of a demon even when he was alert and in full control of his faculties. If he woke confused and disoriented, saw her looming over him, he might lash out. 

Better to retreat. Moving slowly, to keep the bed still, she eased away from his sleeping form. 

“Leave me,” he repeated, beginning to thrash. 

Her heart squeezed. He was so capable, so self-contained. How he must hate being helpless, laid low by phantoms. 

How he would hate being seen like this. 

She shifted further, limb by limb, trying not to disturb him. She had one foot on the cold stone floor when his eyes snapped open. He looked wildly from side to side, breaths ragged, and then relaxed into the mattress. 

“Bad dreams?” Kit asked, as neutrally as possible. 

“They always are.” He sounded resigned. “Without lyrium, they’re worse.” 

“Without lyrium.” She kept still, halfway off the bed, not brave enough to cuddle close and offer comfort. Would he even want that? Or would he find it humiliating? “How is that going?” 

He elbowed himself up against the headboard, high enough to get his head and shoulders upright, not enough to be sitting. The sheets pooled around his waist. He was naked, magnificently so; they had slept very little during the night. 

“It’s… what was it you said? ‘The Fade is never empty’? It’s like that. The headaches don’t change. The cramps, the dreams, the craving. But I know what to expect. That makes it easier to bear. I shouldn’t have stayed, but”—his gaze dropped, snagged on her breasts; she, too, was naked—”I’m not sure I could have made myself leave.” 

“I’m glad you stayed,” Kit said steadily. “You should do what makes you comfortable, but if we’re going to do this again, I would rather you stayed.” 

“ _If_?” He moved quickly, swooping round and hooking an arm around her waist, dragging her close and fluffing the covers around them.

Kit cupped his cheek. The stubble pricked her palm; he’d rubbed her raw in all the right places. She’d be a mess of aches and pains all day and had no intention of healing herself. She wanted to feel it all. 

“Kit.” He dipped down for a kiss, those big calloused hands of his roaming. The looseness to his movements, sleepy and familiar, was almost as overwhelming as his size, his smell, his heat all around her. “I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.”

He probably didn’t mean for that to sound so ominous. But, as his lips blazed a trail down her neck, to her breasts and then lower, she couldn’t bring herself to regret, well, _anything_. 

 

*****

 

They missed breakfast entirely. In fact, by the time they were clothed—after several false starts; something about watching Cullen put _on_ clothes gave her an irresistible desire to take them right back _off_ of him—and safely out of her bedroom, she rather suspected they’d missed lunch as well. 

They did finally locate the rest of the Inquisition party—Josephine and Fiona, anyhow—gathered in a formal sitting room with the King and Queen of Ferelden. The four of them all turned to the door as Kit and Cullen entered, Josephine exasperated, Fiona tense, Anora blank. King Alistair just grinned like a loon.

Cullen blushed from his cheeks all the way down to his throat. It was _adorable_.

“What did we miss?” Kit asked. 

“Leliana is interrogating the captured Venatori,” said Josephine. “In the meanwhile, we’ve begun to discuss the future of mages in Ferelden.” 

Given the Queen’s impenetrable mask and the way Fiona was wringing her hands, the discussion had been going about as well as Kit had expected. 

“Considering recent events in Redcliffe—” Anora began.

Kit snorted. Without a second thought, she left Cullen and went to stand behind Fiona. 

“What was _that_?” demanded the King. “That snide little noise?” 

“The Redcliffe mages were offered sanctuary only to be caged and forced into indentured servitude by a foreign army." Kit rolled her eyes. "But please, blame it on us.”

“We’ve been welcomed as guests, Kit.” Fiona spoke through her teeth, her lips barely moving. “Please do not start a fight.” 

Kit shrugged and peered at her nails. Thanks to the healing potion new nail beds were beginning to form, but the old nails—black, purple, and loose—would still need to come off. 

“We could have handled that better,” King Alistair admitted.

Kit winced. She’d bet his hostility at Redcliffe owed more to Leliana than anything else. By taking responsibility for his behavior, he demonstrated far more maturity than she had by snapping at him. 

“Sorry.” Kit headed for the door. She didn’t belong here; no surprise. “I think I’ll stop by the infirmary. Maybe check on the dollhouse.”

“I thought you would ask us for a boon,” said Anora, stiff as a marble statue. 

Kit paused, her hand on the knob. “A boon? For what?” 

“Saving our daughter’s life.” 

“Why bother? If you wouldn’t get rid of the Circles for the Hero of Ferelden, you’re not going to do it for me.” 

King Alistair dropped his gaze. 

“My husband would have kept his promise,” said Anora quietly. “ _I_ convinced him not to. The Fifth Blight left most of Thedas untouched, but it brought Ferelden to its knees. Many died, our capital was nearly destroyed, we lost a whole season of planting and harvesting. We scraped our treasury clean to keep our people from starving that winter. We could not risk an Exalted March.”

“That is why _now_ is the time, Your Majesty,” Josephine said urgently. “Thanks to the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, it is now the _Chantry_  that cannot afford an Exalted March.”

“We aren’t asking for carte blanche,” added Fiona. “Open one of your cities to us. Allow us to send you a few of our mages, and then a few more. Only our best, those who have proven themselves. We have much to offer. In time, your banns and arls will _ask_ for permission to open their borders as well.” 

King Alistair rubbed at his cheek. “Cullen? What do you think of all of this?” 

Kit stiffened. She’d left him to join Fiona, and then to leave. Now he stood alone in the center of the room and he did not acknowledge her at all. He met the King’s eyes and spoke to him alone. 

“I believe it is the Templar’s role to step in when trouble arises,” said Cullen. “To protect non-mages, to contain mages who have lost control, capture those who have turned to crime or blood magic. Mages are dangerous, and we are uniquely equipped to face that danger.” 

Did he hear himself? Saying ‘we’? He wasn’t even _pretending_ he wasn’t a Templar.  

Kit exhaled slowly through her teeth. Couldn’t she allow him his opinions? Even if they all, intentionally or not, demeaned her? Would it really _matter_ if he advised his dear friend King Alistair to keep the mages locked up in Circles? 

Yes. Yes it would. Maybe she was petty or stubborn or stupid, but she could not be with a man who would sabotage her, blight her life, her friends’ lives… her _former_ friends’ lives. She was not a monster. She was a _person_.

Oh well. She hadn’t expected this thing between them to last forever. A _week_ would have been nice. But, as always, if wishes were horses beggars would ride. 

“I do _not_ believe it is a Templar’s role to set the laws that govern mages, nor to rule over them,” Cullen continued. “I cannot tell you if their plans will succeed. Alistair. Only that, if you intend to implement them, you must put appropriate safeguards in place. If you _do_ abolish Circles in Ferelden, Templars will be more important than ever. Some of my Templars could be transferred to your command. Add them to your army or your city guards; place them where you settle mages.” 

Kit blinked. Not a ringing endorsement, but the next best thing. Solid, practical support. 

“Andraste’s arse,” Alistair said softly. “You mean that?” 

"I do."

At last, Cullen met her gaze. The fine crow’s feet fanning out from his eyes, the slight thinning of his lips, told her that he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. 

He raised his eyebrows. _Acceptable_? 

Kit nodded. _Acceptable_.

So. They’d made it through the morning. Maybe she would get her week, after all. Maybe she’d get more than that. How... astonishing. 

“You would render the Chantry toothless,” said Anora. “No mages, no Templars… the Chantry will move to strike you down before you can accomplish this.” 

“They will move,” said Josephine. “They won’t succeed.” 

“That’s a lot of confidence you’ve got there, Lady Ambassador,” said King Alistair. 

“I do not always agree with Kit, I am often horrified by the words that come out of her mouth, and her methods are questionable.” Josephine spread her hands. “But, speaking as an Antivan? I would not bet against her.”

“Why, Josephine,” Kit exclaimed. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

“Yes,” Josephine agreed dryly. “It is.” 

Queen Anora murmured in her husband’s ear. He squeezed her hand in his and said, “Then you have our support. We’ll work with Enchanter Fiona to establish zones where mages can live freely. And, Cullen, you know I’ll take your Templars. As many as you’ll give me.” He turned to Kit. “We should have done as Neria asked years ago. I’m sorry I needed to be reminded.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. Almost to Halamshiral. That only took, like, forever.


	65. nature and nurture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap between updates. I've been slower than usual and this turned out to be longer than usual, which added up to a long wait. 
> 
> I still kind of want to go through and fill it out, replace my lazy tagging with proper beats and add more description/environment stuff, but this is a transition chapter and making it longer seems like a bad idea. 
> 
> I do want to take my time getting Halamshiral right so, sorry, probably another substantial wait...

Rose’s dollhouse was finally finished. The little princess had intercepted them on the way to lunch and insisted they let her show it off for them, apparently in attempt to avoid one of her lessons. Anora had praised her tactics and sent her off to the tutor, but they'd remained in her playroom. The dollhouse was a _marvel_. Tiny cut crystal vases holding tiny silk flowers stood on tiny tables; tiny mirrors reflected the world from tiny gold frames and blown glass lamps hung from the walls. Cullen had mostly seen Kit craft to pass the time, to keep her hands busy. He’d seen rough wood carvings and glass marbles, wonders on their own, but it went to show that a master craftsman’s talent needed room to shine. 

At first, Kit eagerly explained all the features but her pride shifted to embarrassment and then, inevitably, to stiff discomfort. Cullen was not surprised when she sidled toward the door, said, “I can’t stand to look at it anymore,” and fled. 

“That was…” Anora trailed off. 

“She was overcome by your praise, Your Majesty,” Josephine soothed. “Such kind words, coming from someone of your stature…” 

Anora did not seem convinced. 

“A moment,” Cullen murmured, moving to the door at a stately walk and then jogging after Kit. He caught her by the shoulder, so that her momentum spun her around. She turned the same expression on him that she’d worn when she left: a frozen mask. But warmth bled into it when she saw him; the tight muscles loosened, a smile bloomed on her lips, and instead of holding her distance she swayed closer, her body twisting in silent, automatic invitation: hip cocked, shoulders back, waves of glossy black hair falling forward to curl along her collarbone. 

He didn’t really have anything to say. He’d just wanted to see that transformation. It stunned him, every time.

“Do you”—he scrambled—“know when you’re going to leave?” 

“You mean Leliana wouldn’t tell you?” Kit rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Whenever you least expect it. Blink and we’ll be gone. Mysteriously. Leaving behind only a single raven’s feather and the sound of flapping wings.” 

“She’s not as bad as all that,” Cullen protested.

“You say that now, but when I’m right...” Kit shrugged one shoulder. “She refuses to tell me where we’re going, Cullen.” 

“Your luggage has already disappeared from your room,” he admitted. “And I don’t know where it is.” 

“In a deep dark forest somewhere, not even a moon to light the way.” 

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“I know. But I’m going to miss you.” She rose up on tiptoe and kissed him on the nose. “Very much.” 

And now it was his turn to stiffen and stammer when he ought to have been gracious. Amazing that anything could bring out that old awkwardness; he’d thought it had all been beaten out of him. One way or another. 

So he got a better hold on her and kissed her properly, which brought him right back to center. 

“I’ll see you in Halamshiral?” he said. 

“In Halamshiral,” she agreed, scratching her nails lightly down the back of his arm as she let go. Even through the coat, it made him shiver. 

He let her go and returned to the playroom, where Josephine stooped before one of the hinged sections of the dollhouse, peering at—he believed—the formal dining room. The dollhouse had _two_ dining rooms. 

“Are those diamonds?” Josephine asked.

“In the chandelier?” Anora nodded. “Apparently diamond sparkles better than glass.”

“Do you know what I played with when I was Rose’s age?” Alistair asked plaintively. “Dog hair. And mud.” 

“Is it time we start taking parenting lessons from Eamon?” Anora asked. “I can have a spot prepared for our daughter in the kennel. Follow that up with a bit of neglect, an excess of corporal punishment…” 

“You are undermining my point, Anora.” Alistair narrowed his eyes at his wife. “On _purpose_.” 

The Queen smiled sweetly. 

Alistair made a face. “I’m hungry.” 

Anora hooked her arm around his and then swiveled her head around to include the entire party. “Luckily, it is time for lunch.” 

Leliana fell back to chat with Anora as they made their way through the halls, so Cullen found himself walking side by side with Alistair. While Kit and Leliana went off on their mysterious—he could admit it to himself: _bizarrely_ mysterious—mission, he and Alistair would go together to meet with King Bhelen in Orzammar, to talk about obtaining a lyrium supply for Ferelden Templars. 

“I think I get it,” said Alistair.

Cullen glanced at his friend sidelong. “Please don’t say anything disgusting.” 

“Disgusting? I have something nice to say and _that’s_ where your mind goes? First thing?” Alistair tsked. “And you think _I’m_ disgusting.” 

Cullen scowled.

“Because I was serious. I think I get it. I know what it’s like to see a side of someone that most people will never have access to.” He nodded to his wife, poised and sedate. “I mean, public Anora is the real Anora. It’s not fake. But it’s not all of her, either.” 

“Ah.” Cullen paused. These subjects were too intimate to discuss. But the fellow feeling, the approval—it felt good. 

“We’re different, but different from one another in the right ways,” Alistair continued. “It’s a good thing. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And, hey, you and a mage! Who’d have thought? Tell me, do you ever—”

“Are you going to say something disgusting?” Cullen interrupted.

“I—” Alistair sighed. “Yes, I was going to say something disgusting.” 

“Please don’t.” 

“You are no fun at all.” 

“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly. By many people.” Cullen cleared his throat. “But thank you. It’s good to see you happy, and to… understand, a bit. I admit, I’d wondered.” 

“Arranged marriages. Everyone’s a skeptic.” Alistair shrugged. “How many mages do you think could do what she did? When she saved Rose.” 

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen the like.” Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Neria?” 

“I never saw her get that close to the edge. You never saw her fight, but she’s a natural. Made it look easy. We’d get through some nasty skirmishes and everyone would be dripping sweat and too tired to stand and she’d be fresh as a daisy, setting up camp and heckling us about washing up so we didn’t get darkspawn blood in our bedrolls. I mean, she’s powerful but it’s more than that. She was doing what she was born to do and anyone who looked could see it. That’s why we followed her.” Alistair scratched his cheek. “Maybe I’m just dazzled by the roof of Rose’s dollhouse—it’s very shiny—but I get the feeling that Kit doesn’t really belong on a battlefield.” 

That stopped Cullen cold. “You’re right.” He’d known it, but pushed the knowledge aside. They needed her. What she wanted, what would make her happy, didn’t matter right now. It couldn't. But it changed his memory of that night, of finding her on the verge of self-destruction. They were twisting her out of shape, and if they weren't careful, it would kill her. “But these are the times we live in.” 

“And we do what we have to.” Alistair added, with a bitterness Cullen heard from him only rarely, “Whatever it takes.” 

 

*****

 

Leliana pulled Kit before lunch started, gave her a plain Ferelden peasant dress to wear, and tied a kerchief over her hair. They left with the morning shift of kitchen workers, merging onto the streets of Denerim and heading for the docks. 

Kit worried that she was in for a lengthy succession of costumes and cloak and dagger maneuvers, which… well, it might have been entertaining except that Leliana took it so seriously. And even after they’d boarded a ship sailing across the Waking Sea to Orlais, she refused to name their final destination or tell Kit the purpose of their trip. 

As it turned out, though, Leliana was a wonderful travel companion. They kept up the Ferelden peasant disguise throughout the sea voyage, but it took hardly any effort. Leliana convinced the sailors to teach her sea shanties, which she learned quickly and sang with a hearty gusto more crow than nightingale. The sailors, won over to a man, shared their rum and gave the pair of them freedom of the ship—they spent the rest of the short voyage high up in the rigging, wind on their faces and salt stiffening their hair, passing a spyglass to and fro. 

It was tremendous fun, and Kit knew she wouldn’t have experienced any of it on her own. 

They disembarked in Val Chevin, traded the Ferelden disguise for a similar Orlesian one—plain farm women in drab dresses—and made their way along the coast to the small village of Valence and, at last, it’s chantry. It was a small but exquisite building, boasting a large central dome and fine tilework on the exterior in blue and white. 

“A chantry?” Kit asked. “Are we meeting one of your spies?” 

“I hope not. This is the chantry where I served after the Blight. The Revered Mother helped me find a new purpose… she was Dorothea when I met her, but when she became Divine Justinia she brought me with her as her Left Hand.” 

“You’re not trying to convert me, are you?” 

“No, Kit.” Leliana smiled faintly. “I received a letter from Justinia recently. One she must have written some time ago, only just now sent, asking me to come here. I’m… apprehensive about what she might have left for me, so I brought you along for good luck.”

Kit snorted. “Good luck in a chantry? You know I don’t believe in the Maker, right?” 

“Maferath must have believed in the Maker, to be so jealous of Him, but he was the first betrayer. Shartan did not believe and he was Andraste’s greatest ally.” Leliana gestured for Kit to follow and they stepped out of the light into the shadowed quiet of the chantry, a row of small stained glass windows overhead casting rosy light across the floor. Huge sculptures lined the nave, each depicting one of the key figures in Andraste’s life. Underneath the dome, a massive statue of Andraste herself held pride of place. 

A freckle-faced, ginger-haired lay sister rose from her prayers and greeted them. Leliana cooed out, “Natalie!” and kissed the woman on both cheeks. Apparently they were friends.

“It’s so good to see you, Leliana.” Natalie returned the little air kisses and looked expectantly at Kit. 

“This is my associate,” Leliana said, and left it at that.

So. Maybe not friends, after all. 

Natalie eyed Kit curiously. “I’ll leave you to your visit. I hope it brings you peace.” 

Leliana gestured for Kit to follow her deeper into the Chantry. “Modern histories say Shartan converted. But it’s not mentioned in the original sources. I don’t think it happened. We would rather erase the truth than learn from it.”

Kit bit her tongue. Because, yes, that was the history of the Chantry boiled down to a single sentence. So long as they were in agreement, she didn’t need to rub it in.

They paused in front of the statue. Fires burned around the base, but nothing about the statue itself suggested an agonizing death. Andraste stood with her arms crossed, staring off into the distance, a golden diadem gleaming on her stone brow.

Natalie trailed along behind at a polite distance. Which was… odd. 

“Andraste fought injustice. She did not create it. But the Chantry she founded has become the greatest symbol—the greatest perpetrator—of injustice in all of Thedas.” Leliana tipped her face up to the light. “If the Maker has chosen to work through you, perhaps that means we have a chance to prove ourselves. To show that the lust for power does not rule us, that we can do what is right.”

“Unlikely,” muttered Kit. 

“You do not have to believe. I believe, and I believe in you. That’s enough.” Leliana reached for the frame of a large painting. A latch clicked and the painting turned on a silent, invisible hinge. Behind the painting lay a small alcove, empty but for a stone pedestal topped by a small gold box. “Here it is.” 

Leliana lifted the box with both hands, running her figures lightly over the sunburst insignia worked into the lid. Then she opened it and gasped. Faster than the eye could follow, Leliana whirled around and leapt at Natalie. 

She backed the holy sister up against the base of the great statue of Andraste and pressed a knife to her throat. “What did you do with it?”

Confused, Kit peeked at the box, back on its pedestal. Empty. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” protested Natalie.

“You know.” Leliana pressed the knife deeper, dimpling Natalie's skin and drawing a drop of blood. “You found it. You took it. And I will have the truth.” 

“Hey now,” Kit said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“You want to save this Chantry sister?” Leliana demanded. _“You?_ ”

“Oh, go ahead and kill her,” said Kit. “It’s the torture I object to.” 

“But I _must_ know.” 

“I have an idea,” said Kit. “On the count of three, you're going to step away from her.” 

Leliana hesitated.

“One… two… three,” Kit counted slowly and then snapped, “Step away!” 

Leliana sprang back, though she bent toward the sister as though pulled by a magnet.

 Kit laid a paralysis ward on the sister before she could flee. “You’re the expert at sneaking about and gathering information, so I’m just going to sit here and hold this nice lady with my spell while you go sniff around.”

“She might carry it with her. The box was small.”

“Pat her down. This ward only holds one.” 

Leliana stepped into the ward—it flashed green and swirled with runes—and gave Natalie a very thorough inspection. 

“Nothing,” she declared. “She’s hidden it.” 

Kit raised her eyebrows.

Leliana turned to the alcove. “There’s dust on the floor here, and the only footprints I see are ours,” she said. “But Justinia must have arranged all this before the Conclave. It could have been stolen at any time between now and then.” 

“Do you really believe some enemy of yours has kept a spy here twenty-four seven, for months, just in case you decided to drop by?” Kit asked. “Why? So they can gloat?” 

“I believe you are enjoying this,” Leliana seethed. “ _I_ am not.” 

She prowled around the dome, then left to examine the nave and finally exited the chantry entirely. 

“Set me free!” Natalie cried. “You will not let that vicious madwoman spill blood inside a chantry, will you?” 

Kit rolled her eyes and pointed at the huge statue of Andraste looming over them. “We’re pretty much standing in a shrine to murder. I’m surprised you haven’t declared it a form of worship yet.”

“Heresy!” 

“Sister, you have no idea.” Kit picked up the little gold box—Leliana had left it on the pedestal—and opened it. Lined with red velvet, very fancy, but also very empty. She turned it upside down. The bottom hadn’t been gilded with the rest; it shone a dull silver. And the box was bottom heavy; surprising, since the lid was so large and ornately decorated. 

“Here’s hoping Leliana doesn’t kill me for desecrating her present,” Kit muttered, calling her spirit blade into her hand. Carefully, to cause the least damage possible, she cut the velvet around the edges and lifted it away. 

Yep, a false bottom. A pair of screws held it in place; she used the tip of her knife to loosen them and lifted out the thin silver barrier. Inside the shallow compartment beneath lay a tightly folded scrap of paper. 

“And here it is.” Kit picked up the paper and waved it at Natalie. 

“Give it to me!” Natalie cried. “It’s mine!” 

“Give it to you? Sure.” Kit tucked the note in between two of Natalie’s paralyzed fingers. “There you go. What does it say?” 

Natalie screamed her frustration. 

Kit laughed and took the paper back, returning it to the box. “So you really _were_ here to steal Justinia’s final message to Leliana. Call me crazy, but aren’t you supposed to honor the Divine’s wishes?” 

“It is not your place to tell me my duties!” 

“Doesn’t sound like you’d listen even if it _were_ my place.”

“Insolent, degraded creature,” Natalie cried. “Don’t you dare mock me!” 

“It’s been a while since anyone talked to me like that. Didn’t miss it at all.” 

Leliana barreled through the doors of the chantry at a run. When she saw Kit standing calmly by Natalie, still paralyzed, she sagged with relief. “What happened? I heard screaming.” 

Kit tipped her head at their prisoner. “That was Natalie.” 

“You’ve picked up where I left off? Good.” Leliana stalked closer. “What have you learned?” 

“No, Leliana, I did not pick up where you left off. I decided to take a closer look at the box to pass the time.” Kit held it out. “It had a false bottom.” 

“Oh,” Leliana breathed. She unfolded the note, hardly more than a scrap of paper, and stood staring at the message for much longer than it could possibly have taken to read it, her head bowed and the linen cowl she wore draped over her head shadowing her expression.  

Finally she refolded the note and put it back in the box, calm and precise. 

“So, Natalie, you were ignorant,” said Leliana. “Just a spy, and not a very good one.” 

“Should I release her?” Kit asked.

Leliana nodded.

Kit dissolved the paralysis ward. Natalie stumbled, righted herself, and fled. 

“She’ll fetch reinforcements,” Leliana said. “Come.” 

Leliana led them on an overlong, convoluted tour of Valence, ending at the inn. She checked them into a room, left Kit alone for a few minutes and returned with an armful of men’s clothes. Less than an hour later they left the inn dressed as woodcutters, their hair tucked into green felt caps. Once they reached the Imperial highway, they snuck up behind a wagon loaded with bales of hay and jumped into the bed. 

Kit shifted the bales around until she had a comfortable bed for herself, lay down and crossed her arms behind her head. Fluffy clouds swam in a bright blue sky, the Waking Sea lay close enough to salt the air, and she had good sex to look forward to. Speaking of which... "Any more stops on the way to Halamshiral?

Leliana didn’t answer. 

Kit rose up on her elbows. Leliana sat with her legs folded, hands in her lap, staring blankly out at the highway as it unrolled beneath them. 

“You okay?” Kit asked. 

“No,” Leliana answered. “Do you know what message Justinia left for me? She wrote—no, I can’t repeat it. Here.” Leliana fished the box out of the small sack she carried in lieu of luggage. “Read.”

Kit took the note from the box. It was short, just a single sentence long: _The Left Hand should lay down her burden_.

“She’s releasing me,” said Leliana. “Before the Blight, I was a bard. I did terrible things out of love for my master, Marjolaine, and in recompense she abandoned me to torture, to protect her own reputation. Justinia knew all about my past, but she put me to the same use. A thousand lies, a thousand deaths… her commands, but my conscience that bore the consequences.”

“And now it’s over,” said Kit. 

“I’ve always been someone’s tool,” Leliana said. “A favorite tool, to be sure. Nobody else could do the things I did. But who am _I_? Beyond bard, Left Hand, spymaster...”

“You’re asking me?” 

Leliana finally faced Kit. “Do you have an answer?”  

She was serious.

More than that—expectant. Waiting for someone new to clip a leash around her neck. 

“Give it time,” said Kit. She shifted around until she was sitting next to Leliana with her calves dangling over the edge of the cart. “You know that I used to be close with the First Enchanter of Ostwick, right?” 

“I researched you quite thoroughly after the Conclave.” 

“So you know we had a falling out.”

Leliana nodded. 

“Did you ever wonder how I ended up in the Ostwick delegation to the Conclave?” Leliana nodded, so Kit continued. “I’d originally planned to flee to Redcliffe, but I’d been insisting that we develop contingency plans and everyone kept brushing me off. A few weeks before we left, Glynnis called me to her office. She said”—Kit pitched her voice low, gentled her tone in imitation of her old mentor— “‘You’re right about this Redcliffe scheme, Kit. It’s too risky.’” Kit rolled her eyes. “I should point out that Glynnis was an aequitarian, through and through, and we’d never included her in _any_ of our plans.”

Leliana laughed softly. “I think I like her.” 

“You would,” Kit returned dourly. “I was terrified, of course. But she went on to explain that for years—years when she condemned me, rejected me, walked out of a room when I walked in it—she’d wanted to reconcile, but she didn't because I’d become too useful. I shouldn’t tell you this story, but… Ostwick wasn’t bad, as far as Circles go. It would be an exaggeration to call our Templars decent, but they followed the rules. So I learned to fight them without breaking rules. I got really good at it.” 

“Ah,” said Leliana. “I see, now.” 

Kit nodded. “By the time they figured out what was going on, I’d already had half-a-dozen Templars transferred or stripped of their rank. The ones that were left were the ‘give her enough rope and she’ll hang herself’ sort, not the ‘kill her now, make up a reason later’ sort, and there was always my family to deal with… so I got away with it.” 

“You did what nobody else could do,” Leliana said, as she’d just said about herself. 

“And because of our falling out, Glynnis could present herself as a peacemaker, a moderate, always striving for balance… while relying on me to add teeth to her demands.” 

“What did you do?” 

“What do you think? I got mad and yelled at her.” Kit quirked her lips. “But it was her idea for me to attend the Conclave with the Ostwick delegation, to take the initiative and seek out new refuges for mages. She said that she wanted to help me find the freedom I was looking for. That she owed it to me.”

“She released you,” said Leliana. “And now we’ve tied you to our cause.” 

“No, that’s not what I’m getting at,” said Kit. “I think of her all the time, these days. I appreciate her, the choices she made, in a way that I couldn’t before. I saw the best and the worst of her. The best is worth remembering, and the worst doesn’t make me love her any less.” 

“That’s beautiful,” said Leliana.

Kit’s cheeks turned hot. “Thanks.” 

“And you see?” Leliana bumped her shoulder into Kit’s. “I knew I was right to bring you along. The Maker acts through you.” 

“No,” said Kit.

“Yes,” Leliana insisted.

“No,” said Kit, more firmly yet. 

“Yes!” Leliana grabbed a handful of hay and tossed it into the air; it caught on the wind and tumbled through the air. A few stalks flew right into the face of the man driving the cart behind theirs and he made a rude gesture, but Leliana only laughed. "I am right and that's all there is to it.” 


	66. puttin' on the ritz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! You probably thought I was neglecting this fic but no, indeed not. I've been writing Halamshiral... and writing Halamshiral... I've got a lot of Halamshiral. So much, in fact, that I'm going to chop it into pieces. I'll try to post every other day for the next week. 
> 
> First off, warnings and provisos.
> 
> TRESPASSER SPOILERS AHOY. If you read past this point, you'll have two epilogue cards spoiled. Vivienne's epilogue card and Cullen's epilogue card. In both cases, the epilogue card describes stuff that is never mentioned in the DLC itself. It's just... "Voila! Epilogue!" 
> 
> Also, I have not read The Masked Empire. I gather that the only way to meet the characters that figure prominently in the Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts quest is to read The Masked Empire. So I don't know these Orlesians as well as I could & I'm sure I'll get their characters wrong. 
> 
> As a player who hasn't read the book, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts is a really frustrating quest. Like, who are these people? Why do I care who rules Orlais? How am I supposed to decide with so little information? 
> 
> I've had a general idea of how Halamshiral would fit into Enemies to Lovers for a while, but once I sat down to write I got a bee in my bonnet about having all this intrigue make sense and feel relevant. Like, see how many elements from the canon quest I could include in a way that integrated with my story & didn't just feel random. Maybe I succeeded, maybe I didn't... either way, there's a whole lot of Halamshiral coming.

Cullen pretended to shine his boots, black patent things that perfectly reflected his face because they were _completely new_ , so Kit wouldn’t notice he was really idling about their bedroom, watching her get dressed. He’d never seen her show any anxiety about her appearance before but she’d spent the past hour putting on gowns and then taking them right back off.

In between, she made sour faces at herself in the mirror. Cullen found them rather entertaining.

The room boasted a large, full-length looking glass, along with other Orlesian luxuries. Silk sheets, pillows with tassels, a porcelain chamberpot decorated with paintings of frolicking shepherds.

He would never understand this country.

Josephine had secured an estate not far from Halamshiral for the Inquisition party. While he’d been in Orzammar, Kit and Leliana in Valence, Josephine had been preparing for the ball. She’d found their accomodation, gathered gossip, and—of course—obtained clothes suitable to the occasion.

Cullen found nothing to complain about the outfit she’d chosen for him, a red jacket with black trousers and gold embellishment. But he also thought all six of the gowns that Josephine had sent to Kit were lovely, and Kit seemed to hate every one.

Kit wrinkled her nose and began unfastening the green and cream confection she’d just spent ten minutes lacing and buttoning herself into.

“I would have imagined you’d be comfortable at formal balls,” he said, secretly pleased that she wasn’t. He _loathed_ them.

“Because of my family, you mean?”

Cullen nodded.

“Maybe that’s the problem.” She laid the green and cream dress on the bed, lined up next to the others in a sumptuous rainbow of color. “Dressing up reminds me of home.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“No. My family is wonderful. They love me and make sure I feel welcome whenever I visit. It’s not their fault I was a brat.” Her eyes blanked, lost their focus. “Or that I was taken away.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Lineage means more in Orlais than anywhere else in Thedas,” said Kit thoughtfully. She wore nothing but a semi-transparent slip that clung to every curve. “And Celene, a hereditary monarch, has invited us to celebrate the new Divine… who leads the organization that has stripped me of my family name, my rank, my right to marry or inherit.”

“We’re going to change that.”

“But _Celene_ wouldn’t. _Cassandra_ wouldn’t.” Kit shifted her weight from hip to hip, unselfconscious now that she wasn’t looking in a mirror. “How many of the people attending this ball have a mage in the family, do you think?”

“In the immediate family, very few. But if you include more distant relations, I imagine most of them do.”

“That’s what I’d guess, too,” said Kit, belting a robe over her slip and kissing his cheek on her way out the door.

He didn’t see her again until several hours later. A messenger came to fetch him to the carriage that would take them all to Halamshiral. He made his way out to the drive, a great curving thing that cut through the acres of deep green grass surrounding the borrowed estate. Four matching gray horses stamped and snorted on the gravel, harnessed to a glossy, black-painted coach.

Josephine and Leliana were already inside. Their full skirts, yards and yards of delicate, pristine silk, overflowed the tiny compartment.

“How am I supposed to get in?” Cullen complained.

Leliana laughed while Josephine scooted to the side and scooped up enough fabric for him to get one of his feet on the baseboard. Once he’d swung himself onto the bench, she let go and frothy skirts spilled across his thighs and completely swallowed his legs from the knee down.

He was trapped.

“Where’s Kit?” Josephine asked.

“You don’t know?” Cullen replied.

“Last minute alterations,” said Leliana. “She’s coming.”

“So she found a dress?” Cullen asked. No one had come to claim any of the dresses that Josephine had sent. They were all still lying on the bed.

Leliana nodded.

“What do you mean? I sent her…” Josephine looked from Leliana to Cullen and then back. “I’m going to hate this, aren’t I?”

Leliana nodded again.

“ _Braska_ ,” Josephine muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. “I should have known Denerim was an anomaly.”

The door to the estate opened. Kit stepped through and just that first glimpse of her, backlit by bright lamplight, gave Cullen chills.

He threw himself against against the cushioned bench seats of the carriage and took a deep breath, fumbling instinctively at his empty pockets. No lyrium; there hadn’t been for months now, of course.

The light crunching of slippered feet on gravel preceded Kit’s arrival at the open carriage door. He looked again, hoping he’d been wrong, then turned away just as quickly as before.

She was wearing Circle robes.

“Are you _trying_ to get us all killed?” Josephine sputtered.

“We were never going to win over Celene with smiles and good manners,” said Kit, fitting herself across from him on the opposite bench.

Cullen stared at his lap.

“That doesn’t mean we can afford to make her an enemy!” Josephine cried. “You’ll frighten away potential allies.”

“It’s a mask like any other,” said Leliana. “Once they see that, they’ll respect it.”

“They respect _subtlety,_ ” said Josephine. “Not ham-handed scandal-mongering.”

“I ought to have reminded them that I’m one of them, right?” said Kit. “A noble born and bred.”

“Yes!” Josephine exclaimed.

“I’d rather remind them that they have a stake in this fight,” said Kit. “No matter how much wealth or power they acquire, the Chantry will come for their sons and daughters. Same as they came for me.”

The carriage jerked into motion.

Cullen stole covert glances at Kit during the ride, but he couldn’t get used to it. Most of the rebel mages, Kit included, avoided anything that even vaguely resembled the uniforms they’d once been forced to wear.

Seeing her now—it was as though someone had reached into the back of his mind with a fire poker, stirred up coals he’d thought long dead. Fear and pity welled up, threaded through with… animosity? Suspicion? And a strong desire to get away from her, to avoid such close contact.

What’s worse, she hadn't simply donned a set of Circle robes. She’d modified them in subtle ways—opened up the neckline so that it looked like it had been ripped, slashed the sleeves and skirt and added a lining of bright red cloth the color of blood.

It was horrid.

He remembered, as he had not for a long while, his first impression of her. _Poisonous_. Pretending to be meek, lying with every word, seething with hatred.

He’d hardly _met_ her before she made her first escape attempt. He’d gotten to know her by _hunting_ her. Marching a sullen woman through the snow on the way back to Haven, waiting for her to try some trick on him.

He stuttered on a memory that had seemed insignificant at the time. She had found her phylactery in his pack and reacted with predictable outrage. The dregs of lyrium in his blood had allowed him to summon a whisper of power. He’d threatened her and she’d dropped down to both knees with her head bowed low, bound hands curled protectively over her belly.

Kit. On her knees. Cringing submissively. Knowing her as he did now, the thought made him sick.

And he—sweet Maker, he had been _dissatisfied_. Because she did not know her place. Because while he could secure her outward obedience he could not stamp out the defiance in her heart.

If he searched his memories, other instances came to mind. Her boldness had stuck out. Her meekness had not, because it was so ordinary.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop he felt shaky. A headache coming on, an itching under his skin. He clenched his jaw and kept close to the others as they disembarked, hoping his gruffness appeared soldierly rather than simply rude.

Kit touched his arm.

“Don’t,” he said, shaking her away.

They passed through a pair of gilded gates into a garden which, as far as he could tell, had been designed with the intent of making plants look like man-made objects. Everything straight and square and soulless.

Duke Gaspard came to greet them, soon falling into step at his side. A short man, bald and fit for his age, he wore a narrow, molded mask over his eyes that did nothing to hide his identity. He commanded Celene’s armies, which—in Cullen’s opinion—had rendered him slightly less intolerable then the average Orlesian noble.

“I have thought about your offer,” said the Duke. “It’s quite tempting.” 

Cullen grunted.

“Templars under my direct control,” he continued. “No need to petition the Chantry for aid every time we face a magic-wielding enemy. Such autonomy would be precious.”

“I believe all parties would benefit from the arrangement,” Cullen agreed.

“But while I chafe against the Chantry, the system has its benefits. They hold power over us all and use it to keep the peace.”

“And by that you mean the Chantry has given preferential support to wars that Orlais wages against the other countries of southern Thedas,” said Cullen. “You _are_ going to lose that advantage, Your Grace. If you don’t want to work with us, you may soon find yourself at a _disadvantage_. That’s up to you.”

Gaspard’s eyes flashed. “It is not so simple, Commander. You need me more than you know.”

Gaspard made a curt farewell and left to greet another group of new arrivals.

“That was ominous,” said Leliana, taking Gaspard’s place. “Are you all right?”

“Well enough,” said Cullen.

“Best brace yourself,” said Leliana. “Everyone is expecting Celene to make a surprise announcement.”

“Then how is it a surprise?” Cullen asked irritably.

“Because we don’t yet know how bad it will be.”

A brace of plate-wearing guards guarded the doors to the palace, still as statues with the visors of their helmets turned down. Each one carried a halberd, a perfectly serviceable weapon, with gold ribbons dangling from the haft. Cullen snorted as he proceeded past them; trained soldiers as decoration. _Orlais_.

A wide staircase brought them to a landing where a crowd of guests milled about.

“We must wait our turn to be announced by the Herald,” Josephine explained.

Guests arrived faster than the announcements could be made, however. He soon found himself pressed bodily against several strangers, trying not to gag at the riot of perfumes polluting the air.

Eventually they reached the ballroom, a massive, high-ceilinged affair. Partitioned into two levels, with the dance floor below and a balcony above. The balcony ringed the dance floor on all four sides while also providing access to some half-dozen exterior balconies, looking out over Halamshiral’s extensive gardens.

As the Herald announced their names they walked one by one down a flight of stairs to the dance floor and across the vast expanse of polished wood. When they reached the opposite end of the room, where the Empress waited, they were to bow and step aside.

This was easy for Cullen, who had marched in his share of parades, though he wondered who had told the Herald his middle name. Celene’s shallow nod of acknowledgment struck him as chilly and he decided to take Leliana’s instruction to brace himself a little more seriously than he had before.

Kit came last of all. The sliced neck of her gown left one shoulder nearly bare and the other covered. She wore no cosmetics, no jewelry, and the only bright color to be found on her person were the little flashes of red that winked in and out of view as she moved.

Horrid, he thought again. _Nightmarish_.

The buzzing chatter in the ballroom faded to silence as she crossed the polished wood floor and paused before Celene.

They made a striking image, standing face to face. Celene wore blue, an extravagant gown with a stiff bodice and wide skirts. Gems glittered at her neck, her ears, her wrists and fingers. A stiff gold ruff framed her face, serene and heavily powdered. She did not need a mask because she was, herself, a symbol. A living embodiment of Orlais itself: courtly, mysterious, and rigid.

And Kit… he knew her appearance to be every bit as calculated as Celene’s, but in the grand ballroom it was hard to see anything but raw honesty. She looked like she had stepped off of a battlefield and into the ballroom, dangerous and stripped of artifice.

She made the ballroom look like a stage set, a flimsy screen of papier-mache, easily ripped aside.

“That’s…” Cullen couldn’t find a word that fit.

“A picture,” said Josephine in a tone he couldn’t parse. Resigned and… impressed?

Kit did not bow.

Celene looked right through her.

After a moment, Kit stepped aside and all the conversation that had dwindled to nothing returned to full volume. Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck as the noise washed over him, trying to loosen tense muscles.

The Herald blew his trumpet, signaling the end of the introductions, and Celene climbed up from the dance floor to stand on the balcony, overlooking the crowd.

“In these dark days, only one thing could bring us all together in celebration,” began the Empress, orchestrating each word with tiny movements of her hands. “And that is hope, such as I have not felt for many months.

“Our new Divine is a woman whose strength of purpose and unassailable integrity bear witness to the benevolence of our Maker. It is my very great honor to present to you Her Holiness, Divine Victoria.”

At this last, Cassandra stepped into the light. The Divine’s white robes, columnar and confining, did not suit her. Her huge ceremonial hat careened about with each small motion of her head, like a sailboat on a choppy sea.

And yet the absurd outfit could not rob Cassandra of her dignity. It was only now, seeing her fierce and proud, that Cullen understood how low the Inquisition had brought her. The change had happened so gradually. But the woman standing beside the Empress—she had been gone for too long. 

“I am a warrior, not a courtier, and so I will speak plainly,” said Cassandra. “An ancient enemy moves among us. He calls himself Corypheus and his weapons are chaos and division. If we are to stand against him, we must stand together. The time has come to put aside our differences for the greater good.”

“Fuck you, too,” Kit muttered.

“Hush,” said Josephine, and pinched her.

“Words are not enough,” continued Cassandra. “Over the past week, I have brought together representatives from Orlais, Nevarra and Starkhaven to form an alliance. We will fight Corypheus with our armies but we will _defeat_ him with peace, unity, and order.”

A startled murmuring spread through the audience. Nevarra had invaded Orlais not long ago and relations between the two countries remained hostile.

“She contacted the Pentaghasts!” Josephine hissed.

“United by our faith,” Cassandra concluded, “Nothing can stop us.”

“She means us,” Leliana murmured dryly.

“I can’t believe this!” Josephine whispered. “When I asked her to use her family connections for the Inquisition, she refused!”

Cassandra’s speech provoked a round of applause but instead of allowing the audience to disperse, the Empress gestured for silence.

“As ever, the Chantry is our shield against evil,” said Celene. “But the shield needs a sword—and it has one. Our new Grand Enchanter, Madame Vivienne de Fer.”

Vivienne looked beautiful as always in ice blue silk. Her style was more distinctive than he’d realized; no one else in the ballroom wore anything like her sleek, elegant gown. Perhaps they couldn’t have pulled it off; few of them had her figure.

Vivienne took her place on the Empress’s other side.

“Many of my fellow mages have beat against every wall, howling their demands, and seem surprised to find themselves surrounded by rubble,” said Vivienne. “It is time to bring the tantrum to an end and engage in _cooperative_ , _productive_ work.

“To that end, I have established myself in Val Royaux and re-opened the White Spire. Mages who have tired of senseless violence are invited to join us, no matter their country of origin. United by common principles, we will expand our reach and restore the Circles one by one.

“You may have questions about the future of the Circles. Set them aside. Justinia believed there could be no progress without peace and the events of the last year have proven her right. For the moment, _peace is paramount_.”

“Peace,” Kit spat, as the sleeve of her robe caught fire.

Cullen reached over and crumpled the heavy cloth, smothering the flame.

“I can give you one piece of news, and I hope you will find it as inspiring and wonderful as I,” Vivienne said. “From now on, mages will make their capital where it should always have been, in the shadow of Val Royaux’s Grand Cathedral.”

“Oh, Celene,” murmured Leliana. “Well played.”

“It is, indeed, a night to celebrate,” said Celene. “Please enjoy the pleasures of Halamshiral.”

With that, the guests were released to enjoy the ball. Cullen would have liked a quiet moment on one of the exterior balconies, fresh air and time to think, but before he could escape a woman wearing a green gown and a mask of black netting approached.

“The Empress will speak with you,” she said in a polite, lilting tone that nonetheless made it clear she’d delivered an order and not a request.

All four of them followed her to the largest of the exterior balconies, the private preserve of the Empress. A dozen lamps blazed, a buffet table presented tiny delicacies arrayed on gold plates stamped with the Imperial starburst, and several guards stood by—no gold ribbons hanging from their weapons.

Celene, Cassandra, and Vivienne waited here with several others that Cullen could not have named. These hangers-on backed away from the tiny Inquisition party as though they were contagious, which, novice in the Game’s many complexities as he was, Cullen took to be a _bad_ sign.

“We do not approve of your heretical organization,” said Celene bluntly. “However, Her Holiness Divine Victoria insists that you founded it in all innocence, believing yourselves to be acting according to Divine Justinia’s wishes. Her appeals have moved us to show mercy.”

“I know it’s hard to admit, but the Inquisition has failed,” said Cassandra. “That doesn’t mean _you_ have failed. Our hopes and our plans—the best of what we tried to make together can live on.

“Cullen,” she said, one hand extended in frendship. “Return the Templars to the Chantry. I have seen what you can do; I know I was right to make you Commander. Your position won’t change, but your resources will improve. With the armies of three nations marching at your back, Corypheus will fall.

“Leliana.” Cassandra turned to the spymaster. “I understand your grief. I feel it too. After Justinia died, we both got lost. It’s time to come home. There is so much work ahead, and I need you at my side. Our partnership is one piece of Justinia that can live on.”

“And Josephine…” Cassandra smiled ruefully. “The Inquisition owes its good reputation to you. You worked miracles every day and never complained. But you have suffered enough. Give up on your thankless task. Though it may be impossible, the Chantry will strive to deserve you.

“And Kit…” Cassandra paused. “You will fight to the bitter end no matter what I say, so I won’t waste my breath.”


	67. house of mirrors

_So_ , Kit thought. _This is what it feels like to have your entire world fall out from under you_.

She’d lost her family because she was a mage. She’d destroyed her second home, the Circle at Ostwick, because it was a prison. The Mark had torn her away from the cause she’d devoted her life to and, as if that weren’t enough, she’d lost her friends as well.

She’d been left with the Inquisition, her trio of advisers, and it had seemed like little enough: Leliana, a religious zealot who clung to irrational beliefs like _Of course the Maker has a murderer on staff, it’s me!_ and _My god chose an atheist as his Herald to prove a point_. Josephine, a skilled diplomat who, despite her good nature and nearly infinite tact, found Kit infuriating and made no attempt to hide it. And, most bizarre of all, Cullen—an ex-Templar who loved her exactly as she was.

But now they, too, would desert her. She would have nothing.

It didn’t surprise her that she could be outsmarted. The Empress, Cassandra, Vivienne—any one of them could outmatch her. Working as a team? She’d never stood a chance.

She turned around to go, but Cullen grabbed her wrist and held her in place.

“The fact that you’re trying to dismantle the Inquisition is proof of how necessary it is,” he said. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. There’s no one I’d rather see on the Sunburst throne, but we already know that a well-intentioned Divine is not enough. That hasn’t changed.”

Kit blinked.

“You are more dear to me than words can say, Cassandra, but you are wrong," said Leliana. "I _am_ on the right path. I believe it now more than ever before.”

Kit sucked a breath, trying to overcome her sudden dizziness, but her lungs seemed to have shrunk to the size of peanuts.

“I cannot say my job is easy, but of late it has been satisfying,” said Josephine, last of the three. “And, if I’m being honest, I do appreciate a challenge.”

Cassandra appeared stunned. “This is… not what I expected to hear.”

“Me, neither,” muttered Kit.

Cullen slid his hand down from her wrist and laced his fingers with hers, squeezing tight. All that strength, bleeding into her. She was going to start crying in front of Celene and… and… _Vivienne_ if they didn’t end this conversation soon.

“Take some time to think,” said Celene. “Speak with us individually, if you have questions. You have until the end of the evening to change your mind. After that, we will snuff out the Inquisition as easily as if it were a candle—and you with it.”

“No.” Leliana offered Celene the sweetest, most sincere, and _creepiest_ smile that Kit had ever seen. “You won’t.”

Leliana turned to go without another word. Cullen followed and Josephine delayed only long enough to offer the Empress a formal curtsey. Kit huddled close to them, afraid this was the end, that maybe they’d only turned down Cassandra’s offer so they could negotiate better terms, that they’d leave her one by one.

“Why didn’t you take the deal?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

In answer, Cullen let go of her hand to slide his arm around her waist and crush her close, though he didn’t stop moving. They ended up on one of the smaller exterior balconies, lit only by the moons.

“Why don’t I explain?” said Josephine, with that tinge of asperity that always crept into her voice when she spoke to Kit. “Answering such questions is, after all, part of my job. Perhaps it will even give you some appreciation of what I do. So. Imagine that you are an outsider who knows nothing of the Inquisition’s inner workings. What do you see?”

Josephine began to tick items off on her fingers. “The Inquisition removed the rebel mages from Redcliffe, forged a truce, and fostered the development of organized, democratic leadership among them. Because we have _also_ absorbed the dissident Templar Order, that means we have effectively brought an end to the mage-Templar war.”

She’d run out of fingers and, with an elegant wave of her hand, gave up on counting.

“That was that primary goal of the Inquisition and I can tell you—as someone who joined before the Conclave, while Justinia was still alive—that these are better results than we expected to achieve. Of course, we haven’t stopped at brokering peace. We’ve begun to form alliances and legal frameworks that stand some chance of giving both mages and Templars a future that looks different, and better, from the past.

“All of this, and I have _yet to mention_ the accomplishments we are best known for,” finished Josephine. “Infiltrating Redcliffe, the most secure fortress in Ferelden. Laying siege to Adamant and winning the friendship of the very Grey Wardens we attacked. Fighting dragons, walking bodily through the Fade, sealing the Breach…”

Josephine sighed and raised one hand, palm up, in apparent bewilderment. “We have accomplished great things. Each and every one of us. And though I would rather have been spared the weeks I spent in Skyhold’s dungeons, and I wish you would at least _warn_ me before pulling stunts like”—Josephine gestured at Kit’s outfit—“you have done more than your fair share.”

Leliana bumped her shoulder against Josephine’s and pulled the diplomat into a half-hug. “That’s my Josie.”

Josephine rolled her eyes.

“Thank you,” said Cullen. “I wouldn’t leave, but for a moment…”

“The palace, the ceremony, the surprise… we were meant to be dazzled. Overwhelmed,” said Leliana. “But we are more evenly matched than they would like us to believe. It won’t take much to tip the scales.”

“In _either_ direction,” Josephine cautioned.

“So what now?” Kit asked.

“Now we play the Game,” said Leliana. “Talk, dance, flirt… eavesdrop. Why did Celene tell us we had until the end of the night to change our minds? What happens tomorrow?”

“Gaspard is up to something,” said Cullen.

“Commander, _everyone_ is up to something,” said Josephine. “They wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“So,” said Leliana, clapping her hands. “This will be fun!”

Kit made her way out of the ballroom. While her choice of wardrobe had made the desired impression, it _hadn’t_ made her any friends. Nobody would make eye contact. She wandered through a small sculpture garden and into a long windowed gallery, where a Harlequin in a tight, spangled jumpsuit caught her attention.

The jumpsuit didn’t leave much to the imagination. Tall and lithe, sheathed in lean muscle, the Harlequin also wore a stiff mask that covered the entirety of his face and a peaked hat with bells on it.

The Harlequin wagged his head from side to side, making the bells jangle, and backflipped down the crowded corridor. Somehow—it had to be magic, though Kit had never seen anything like it—he never paused and never collided with any of the guests.

Completely entranced, Kit followed the Harlequin as he flipped and twirled. She skirted clumps of chatting aristocrats, dodged arms outflung with glasses still in hand, the fizzing champagne within threatening to spill over onto the marble tiled floor, hopped over the trains of long, elaborately embellished gowns.

The Harlequin paused by a pair of double doors flung open to the night. He waggled his head again, set the bells ringing, and _looked right at her_. He crooked his finger in a beckoning gesture and then bounced through the doors into the garden beyond.

Kit followed him onto a patio where scarce lamplight and a burbling fountain promised—perhaps falsely—a safe space for trysts and private conversation. The Harlequin hopped onto a low marble balustrade, cartwheeled from one end to the other, and then backflipped over the edge, into the area of the palace where guests were not allowed.

“I wouldn’t follow him, if I were you,” said a woman with a heavy Orlesian accent.

Kit turned to face the speaker, a petite elf lurking two steps behind her, just out of range of her peripheral vision. The elf wore a bejeweled half-mask, glittering in the bright candlelight, and a silk wrap bound with gold chains to cover her hair… but very plain clothes, sturdy leather trousers and a jacket in forest green and brown.

“Why not?” Kit asked.

“It’s not safe,” answered the woman. “Though if you insist…” She pointed with her chin to a door only a few feet away, half-obscured by shadows and shrubbery. “Arm yourself. I picked the lock to that door. You’ll find weapons inside.”

 _“Arm_ myself?” Kit narrowed her eyes. “Who exactly am I speaking to?” 

“Your counterpart,” answered the woman, holding out her hand. “I am Briala, ambassador from the elven rebellion to the court of Orlais.”

Warily, Kit shook the woman’s tiny, fine-boned hand. “How are the peace talks going for the elves? Better than for the mages, I hope.”

Briala shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure you hear the same stale promises as I. Change will come, but not yet. Soon, but it’s impossible to say when. And only if we remain patient and well-behaved.”

“Soooo… sounds like they’ve been shitty.”

A sharp, feral smile curved Briala’s lips. “Completely unacceptable.”

“Huh.” Kit sensed a potential ally. “How do you feel about mages?”

“I think it’s no coincidence that the humans take away our best weapons,” said Briala. “No swords in an alienage. No bows. And no mages.”

Kit nodded slowly. She’d been too wrapped up in her own revolution to pay much attention to the elves, but she understood this line of reasoning. She’d had a lifetime to think through all the ways that inherently powerful people—as mages were; as the elves of Thedas ought to be, considering their numbers—could be rendered power _less_.

Briala pointed at the door where she’d said Kit would find weapons. “An olive branch. I look forward to seeing what you make of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me… it’s shaping up to be a very busy evening.”

If she needed a weapon, she probably shouldn’t be wandering the palace alone—especially not if she planned to stray out of bounds. So instead of opening the door, she retraced her steps to the ballroom.

Her gaze snagged first on Cullen, of course, surrounded by simpering admirers and looking miserable. Josephine huddled by the buffet table with a young woman who might have been Antivan—she somewhat resembled Josephine in dress and coloring, in any case.

She finally spotted Leliana, leaning on a pillar overlooking the dancers. A chamber orchestra played from one corner of the dance floor. Couples whirled across the polished wood, elegant as clockwork.

“Have you ever heard of an elven rebel named Briala?” Kit asked.

"Briala?" Leliana took Kit by the elbow and ushered her away from the other guests, into a corner. "She used to be Celene’s spymaster.”

Kit started. “And now?”

“And now they have parted ways, unable to reconcile their opposing views. But Briala and Celene were once close. _Very_ close. If something of that bond remains…” Leliana shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

“I just met her,” said Kit, before relating her conversation with Briala in as much detail as her memory allowed.

“Using a Harlequin as a lure sounds like something Celene would arrange. The two of them _could be_ working together. Or Briala may be stirring up trouble for her own ends. She is—”

Leliana cut herself off. “Andraste give me strength,” she murmured under her breath before contorting her mouth into a strained, forced smile. “Hello, Morrigan.”

A tall, slender woman with jet black hair and yellow eyes joined them. “I expected a warmer welcome from such an old, _dear_ friend,” said the newcomer—Morrigan—in a voice that was half velvet, half serrated knife.

“Whereas _I_ didn’t expect to see you at all,” returned Leliana. “Last I heard, you’d lost your position at court.”

“Still an incorrigible gossip, I see,” said Morrigan, unperturbed. “That Vivienne woman doesn’t approve of me. One word from her, and Celene didn’t either. But I have yet to move, and I’ve heard _so much_ about Inquisitor Trevelyan. You won’t deny me an introduction?” 

Leliana swore under her breath. “Morrigan, meet Katherine Trevelyan, the Inquisitor. Kit, meet Morrigan. Morrigan was one of the Hero of Ferelden’s companions during the Fifth Blight. She makes an excellent ally… for exactly so long as it’s convenient for her, and not a moment more.”

“Luckily for you, I did not appreciate my abrupt dismissal,” said Morrigan. “And so, _for the moment_ , an enemy of Celene’s is a friend of mine.”

Leliana pursed her lips, then nodded. “If you want to help, I won’t turn you away.”

“I _am_ relieved,” said Morrigan.

“What’s Vivienne’s problem with you?” Kit asked. Morrigan struck her as exactly the sort of woman Vivienne would appreciate: elegant, secretive, rude.

“I am an apostate,” said Morrigan. “I’ve never set foot inside a Circle.”

Kit’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Morrigan nodded.

“Well, then.” Kit offered both her hands. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Morrigan’s lips twitched in wry amusement, but she allowed Kit the friendly gesture. “Such a warm welcome. A pleasure indeed.”

“Are there any more surprises for us to look forward to this evening?” Leliana asked. “Something we ought to know?”

“I’ve been out of favor for weeks. Your spies will have better information than I. But…” Morrigan held up a golden key on a jeweled chain. “The key to the royal apartments. Why don’t you take a look around? You might find something of interest hidden inside.”

“I can pick locks,” snapped Leliana, though she snatched the key from Morrigan’s hand.

“Which means this must be for me,” said Kit, taking it for herself.

“I’m glad _someone_ appreciates my gifts.” Morrigan cast one last sidelong look at Leliana before swishing away, the words “Good luck,” floating back over her shoulder.

“Lots of untrustworthy people going out of their way to help us tonight,” observed Kit.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Leliana.


	68. surprise

“Commanding an army is such a heavy responsibility,” said a woman in a green gown with a matching green silk mask. She seemed to believe herself irresistible and he had yet to figure out why. “You deserve to relax, at least for an evening.”

“Life rarely gives us what we deserve,” said Cullen. “And most of the time I’m grateful for it.”

“I think he’d prefer a bit of excitement,” said a lady in red. She wielded a closed fan and punctuated her sentences by whacking him with it. “What do you think, Commander?”— _whack_ —“Shall we let loose a little?” _Whack_.

“I’m not at liberty,” he replied, as he had been all night. Most of the women made their offers and moved on but a few had proven to be bloody _persistent_.

“You are so quick to refuse,” purred a man dressed all in black. “And yet it seems to me that you are very much in need of _friends_ right now.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered. Did this man really expect Cullen to whore himself out for the Inquisition? Even if he were tempted, he doubted he could sleep with enough people over the course of one night to make a difference.

“I see you are shocked.” The man lowered his voice. “Don’t be. We all know the Inquisition’s days are numbered. But the brave Commander who took Adamant fortress in a day could have a very bright future ahead of him.”

“A Commander who gave up without a fight would lose his reputation quickly, I imagine,” said Cullen. Though, he had to admit, the job offers were good for his ego.

Not that he would say so aloud. It would be disloyal.

“But—” began the man.

The woman in green interrupted him with a tiny scream, high and thin, like a mosquito’s buzzing. The man jumped and she scurried away, closely followed by the lady in red.

And Cullen, who was tall enough to have seen Kit coming, bit back a smile.

Kit cast a slow, withering glare at the half-dozen admirers that had collected around him. One by one, they fell silent and backed away.

“Want to get out of here?” she asked.

“Sweet Maker, _yes_.”

Kit tipped her head toward the door. Cullen followed, though the grand doors of the ballroom and into the foyer, into a sculpture garden and then a long windowed gallery. Finally they arrived at a dimly lit patio planted with shrubs and other greenery, the highest of a series of terraced gardens.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

“Walking into a trap.”

“Did you just say…”

“Walking into a trap,” Kit repeated.

Cullen thought about that for a moment. “All right.”

Kit grinned. “Yeah?”

“Better than spending the evening with my back to the wall in a futile attempt to defend my posterior from pinching fingers.”

She laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. “Better now that I’m with you.”

Kit rose up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and then opened a door, recessed into the wall and hidden by the shrubbery. Behind it lay a small arsenal, racks and racks of weapons crammed into a small, narrow closet.

Cullen reached eagerly for the nearest sword. The second he closed his hand around the hilt, tension began to drain out of his body.

“What do you need _that_ for?” he asked, when Kit picked up an epee.

“I can channel energy through it.” Kit shrugged. “It’s not a staff, but it’s better than nothing.”

Cullen grunted his acknowledgment. He returned the sword he’d taken and made a more careful selection, then slid his left forearm through the straps of a small but very sturdy silverite shield.

Kit closed the door and made her way to the open end of the patio, where a knee-high balustrade made a token effort at protecting visitors from a painful fall to the courtyard below.

Kit climbed atop the balustrade. He reached out to yank her back, but before he could grab her she _jumped_.

He opened his mouth to ask what she was about, but thought better of it. Whatever her answer, he’d follow along and guard her back.

He jumped after her into a long, narrow courtyard. Covered arcades created pools of shadow and tall, neatly trimmed hedges framed a large, central fountain while also spiraling around to create privacy nooks.

Orlais: where architects and landscapers treated “ample opportunity to misbehave” as a feature and designed accordingly.

“We’re going to sneak into the royal quarters,” said Kit. “This is the fastest route… and I saw something suspicious here a little while ago.”

“The fountain,” said Cullen.

“A Harlequin,” she continued. “Which _could_ be part of the entertainment for the evening, but I don’t think so.”

“Kit,” Cullen interrupted, more sharply this time. “Look at the fountain.”

Kit obeyed this time and they approached the fountain together. It was massive, at least twelve feet tall, with water gurgling from a narrow spout and plashing onto three successively wider tiers before falling at last into a deep pool… with a corpse floating in it.

“Do you want me to…?” Cullen asked.

“No, I’ve got it.” Kit set one knee on the stone rim of the pool so she could lean over to examine the body.

Cullen kept his back to hers, alert for intruders. A body in a dark garden and they’d just happened upon it? Unlikely.

“He looks Ferelden,” said Kit. “Beefy guy, blond, Ferelden armor. Fur sprouting out of every joint.”

But he’d be the better judge. “Let me see.”

They switched places. Kit stood guard while Cullen reached into the water to rotate the corpse, which had been floating face down.

“The armor is definitely Ferelden,” he agreed. “Not very high quality, either—certainly not valuable enough to export for sale. The man was a mercenary, I’d guess… but how did he get into _Halamshiral_?”

Instead of replying, Kit cast a barrier. It sizzled over his skin, shining as it settled into place, waves of light undulating across the bottom of the pool.

Ambush.

Cullen straightened in time to block the first attacker. Like the dead man in the fountain, the ambusher was a burly man of light coloring in cheap Ferelden armor. He gripped a greatsword with both hands and held it high overhead, preparing to strike.

One hard shield bash collapsed the mercenary’s breast plate. He stumbled away, gasping for air; his lungs would fill with blood and suffocate him before he could pry the thing loose.

But he hadn’t been alone. Four more attackers closed in fast, fanning out to make themselves harder to track. Cullen faced the closest. The moment he picked a target a bolt of lightning skipped past him to stun two of the others.

Ice, fire, and lightning bloomed around him, faster than he could have called out direction. It was one of the strangest experiences of his life; Kit anticipated his needs so perfectly that it was almost as though _he_ cast the spells.

After the last of the ambushers fell, she leaned her back against his and they sank in tandem onto the cold flagstones, panting from exhaustion. Cullen let his bloodied sword lie loose in his lap, stunned.

An ambush that ought to have been overwhelming, a desperate struggle against impossible odds, had been reduced to _child’s play_.

“A whole company of Ferelden mercenaries,” said Kit. “Could one of Alistair’s enemies have sent them? Someone who wants to end our alliance while it’s still new and fragile?”

“Anything’s possible,” he said, still staggered. He’d fought with mages before—he’d fought with _Kit_ before. Her battle magic had improved since they traveled to the Western Approach together. That was only to be expected. But defending against a dozen trained warriors attacking simultaneously should not have been _easy_.

How long had it taken? A minute? Maybe two?

“How many people know about the alliance?” Kit pressed.

“Officially? A few dozen. Unofficially?” He shrugged.

“So it could be anyone,” said Kit. “Anyone who wants me dead, that is. I’ll have to ask Josephine to make a list.”

“An assassination attempt,” said Cullen, trying to think logically. The fight had disoriented him. “At a ball meant to celebrate hope.”

“Uh huh.”

Cullen tightened his grip on his sword and stood. “Where we were expressly forbidden to carry weapons.”

Even ceremonial swords. He’d asked. Though a mage was never truly unarmed… unless there was a Templar nearby.

“Yup.”

“Let’s see if we can find out who’s responsible.” He offered Kit a hand. “I’d like to give them a piece of my mind.”

Kit took the hand and he tugged, helping her to her feet.

She slapped the grit from the back of her robes and grinned. “That’s Chantry talk if I’ve ever heard it. You use such nice polite words and you _mean_ ‘wholesale slaughter’.”

“Yes,” said Cullen. “I do.”

“Well.” Kit held up a set of golden keys on a fine chain and jingled them. “I don’t know about you but Celene is number one on my list of suspects.”

They reached the other end of the courtyard without further incident. Another of the terraced gardens spread out below, but instead of dropping any further they began to climb. First to a sort of water garden with man-made pools, lush ferns and parrots squawking from huge brass cages. Then to a balcony that seemed bare until they climbed onto it; layers of thick furs and carpets transformed the whole thing into a bed.

“Feel like taking a break?” Kit asked.

He looked from the balcony-bed to Kit and back, wondering if she was serious.

Probably. She was probably serious.

“No,” he said.

“Shame,” she said, already preparing to jump from the balcony to a narrow ledge which wound around the building. “It looks soft.”

Just around the corner an open window blocked their path, so they climbed inside.

While built on a smaller and more intimate scale, this section of the palace was just as opulent as the more public areas. Gilded tables, white marble, blue velvet, the rising sun of Orlais worked into the backs of chairs and the crown molding.

“Here we go,” whispered Kit, when they reached a locked set of double doors.

Beyond lay an atrium. A lightwell, glassed overhead, allowed faint moonglow to illuminate the silent walkways. After the bustle of the ballroom, the chaos of the ambush, the silence unnerved him.

“Give me the keys,” he murmured. “When we open the doors, I want to be first through.”

To his surprise, she did as he asked without complaint.

The first few rooms they entered contained little of interest. A few gossipy letters which might have interested Leliana but meant nothing to him, a drawer full of sex toys that he found and did _not_ show Kit, jewelry and other such treasures.

By the time he turned the key to the doors of Celene’s bedroom suite, he was convinced they were wasting their time. If all the members of the royal family were such experts in “the Game” then they wouldn leave incriminating evidence of a high-profile assassination strewn about their bedrooms.

“Hello?” called a man from inside. “Who’s there?”

Cullen fell into a defensive stance and motioned for Kit to keep close at his back.

The suite contained a sitting room that seemed to double as an office—it had a desk, anyhow, a gigantic thing inlaid with wood mosaic that looked elven—and beyond that, by a bank of windows, a huge canopied bed.

And on this bed—tied to it, hand and foot—lay an elf. A _naked_ elf.

“Well, hello there,” said Kit in a friendly tone that Cullen tried hard not to resent.

“Sweet lady, answer to my prayers,” crooned the elf. Though he was slender, as elves tended to be, his state of undress revealed him to be rather astonishingly well-muscled.

Cullen, who knew very well how much work it took to maintain a body at that peak level of performance, found the man’s sweet, Antivan-accented voice immediately suspicious.

“Untie me, and I will praise you to the Maker every night without fail,” continued the elf, encouraged by Kit’s ever-expanding grin. “I will describe your beauties and charms, second only to those of Andraste herself.”

“Please stop,” said Cullen.

“My fine gentleman,” said the Antivan. “Untie me, and I will flee immediately. You will never again have to defend your excellent companion from my brazen compliments.”

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” said Kit, who would _not_ stop smiling. “The Empress might have had a good reason to leave you here.”

“I admit, I am generally delighted when a beautiful woman ties me to her bed,” agreed the man. “But in this unique case, I object strongly.”

Cullen grabbed the man’s hand, mottled red because the tight restraints prevented blood from flowing freely, and examined the palm. As he expected, the pattern of calluses was familiar. This man spent his days carrying a weapon, not lolling about in bed playing sex games.

“Drop the act and explain yourself,” said Cullen. “You won’t win favors by trying our patience.”

But the elf only grinned. He had very white teeth. And white-blond hair, past shoulder length, which Cullen found strange. A competent melee fighter would cut his hair, no matter how vain he was; long hair made an excellent handle.

“Introduce yourself,” said the elf, “and all my secrets are yours.”

“Not a chance,” said Cullen. “We’re not going to help you lie to us.”

The elf narrowed his eyes. Something flickered in his gaze, then, and he glanced between Cullen and Kit until an expression of beatific relief softened his sharp features.

“Such a distinctively handsome man—and my lady, dressed in mage robes at Halamshiral? You must be the Inquisitor and her stalwart Commander.”

Cullen raised his sword so the elf could see the blood on it.

“I see you’ve met my men,” said the elf, not at all frightened.

 _“Your_ men?” Cullen touched the tip of his sword to the elf’s throat. “Describe them.”

“Ferelden mercenaries,” answered the elf. “Big brutes, not to be underestimated. You obviously deserve your fearsome reputation.”

“Hold on,” said Kit. “This just got interesting. An _Antivan_ hired a troop of Ferelden mercenaries? And they succeeded in infiltrating one of the most closely guarded buildings in Orlais? And now he’s tied to the Empress’s bed, where—I’m guessing—she wouldn’t put just anyone.”

Put like that, it was obvious. “You’re a Crow.”

“Not quite, though your mistake does not lessen my admiration for your deductive skills,” said the elf. “As it happens, I am a _former_ Crow.”

“But still an assassin.” Which was the only relevant point. “Who hired you?”

“If I answer, will you untie me?”

“You came here to kill my—” Cullen stuttered to a halt. “Inquisitor,” he finished lamely. “You won’t live to see morning.”

The Crow’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Your”—he paused, smirking—“ _Inquisitor_ , is it?”

Cullen would have stabbed his sword through the assassin’s smarmy, fast-talking mouth if a wash of magic hadn’t frozen him in place. The paralysis spell vanished almost as soon as it came, but Cullen obeyed the silent command. He restrained himself.

“We have to kill him,” he insisted. “If we let him go, he’ll only come after you again.”

“But why is he _here_?” Kit demanded. “Those mercenaries weren’t bad—and, knowing how much we pay the Bull’s Chargers, I’d bet they weren’t cheap, either. I don’t know how much it costs to hire a Crow, but…”

“Much, much more than the mercenaries,” said the Crow. “A private army would be cheaper.”

“So why bring an assassin all this way and then tie him up?” Kit went on. “Why stop him from doing his job?”

“Because you are not my target, wisest and most discerning of women,” said the Crow. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“I might believe you,” said Kit. “I might even be convinced to free you. But first I want to know who hired you and who you came here to kill.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” said the Crow.

Kit rolled her eyes.

“I was hired by Duke Gaspard de Chalons to assassinate Empress Celene,” said the Crow. “He wanted it to appear that Ferelden was responsible, giving him an excuse to invade after he took the throne.”

“Well, that explains why he wouldn’t agree to the alliance,” said Cullen.

“Where did the plan go wrong?” Kit asked.

“Celene was aware of his plan,” said the Crow. “She allowed him to smuggle us into the palace, then seized us as soon as we were through the gates. The mercenaries were easily persuaded to pursue a new target—your beautiful and most undeserving self. However, I would not abandon one job in order to start another for the woman I’d been hired to kill. That sort of thing is bad for business.”

“ _Celene_ set those mercenaries on Kit,” Cullen breathed. Did _Cassandra_ know? Had she approved? And what about Vivienne? For all the obvious rivalry between the two mages, he would never have believed she’d go so far.

“And if we set you free, would you try to finish your job?” Kit asked.

“How many mercenaries did you kill?” asked the Crow. “Twelve, perhaps?”

“Eleven,” said Cullen. “One was already dead.”

“Ah, yes. The Captain. He played a mean hand of Wicked Grace.” The Crow sighed gustily. “If they are dead, I cannot complete the job as required. Perhaps I could start fresh, make another attempt on some future date. Not tonight.”

“We can’t let him drag Ferelden and Orlais into a war,” said Cullen. Though he meant: _we still have to kill the assassin_.

And after that… this whole situation was grimmer than he’d originally guessed. All of their attempts to unite against Corypheus, to _force_ a peace, could very easily tear Thedas apart.

“Starting a war is definitely out,” Kit agreed, though she sounded a little vague. Dreamy. She began to tap her index finger to her chin in a regular rhythm, staring into space.

 _She’s going to fix it_ , he thought. _She’s going to put everything right_.

He’d long since given up on the idea that Kit was the Herald of Andraste, the Maker’s chosen. She was not holy. But he’d been on the wrong side of her schemes for so long, her enemy and her dupe. He knew what she was capable of. Better than anyone, perhaps.

“Cullen,” said Kit, very quietly. “I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.”

“First you have to promise me something.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“I’m going to tell you my idea and if you decide it’s no good, we’re going to drop it and never mention it again. We’ll both pretend I never said anything at all.”

That sounded… ominous.

“I can do that.”

“I could find some black cloth and whip up a Venatori robe,” Kit began.

Cullen shook his head to clear his ears. He could not have heard that right. “ _What_?”

“The Crow will wear it. We’ll feed him a line—‘Corypheus sends his regards’—something like that. He’ll kill Celene. She’ll be dead, the alliances she formed will shatter, Ferelden will be in the clear, and the Inquisition will survive.”

At this point, helping to Crow to finish his job would be the same as hiring him. Knights faced their problems head on, in the light of day. In principle, they always offered a fair fight. Assassins sold their honor for coin, killing for cowards who would lose any fair fight. 

Kit waited patiently for his verdict.

“If we’re willing to do something that could plausibly be blamed on Corypheus,” he said, “isn’t that the same as admitting that we’re like him? He’s a monster, Kit. If we fit in his shadow, so are we.”

“I know,” she said.

“I don’t want…” He didn’t want to sink to the level of his enemies. He wanted to be the better man. He wanted to prove—to himself as much as anyone else—that virtue could lead to victory. Nobody had to dirty their hands. Honor, diligence, and compassion ought to be enough.

“You’re right,” said Kit. “Forget about it.”

_Celene had tried to kill her._

He closed his hands into fists and then opened them again, flexing his fingers. Could he fight Celene openly? Could he walk up to her, wearing her stiff silk gown and surrounded by twittering attendants, and deliver a challenge? No. 

She’d accepted such challenges before. Gaspard had issued one. But Celene had never allowed a fair fight and Gaspard had given up. He’d hired the Crow.

The Inquisition ought to be better than Gaspard. That wasn’t such a high bar to hurdle.

And yet… Celene had tried to kill Kit.

They called it a Grand Game but they lied, to themselves and one another. Assassination wasn’t elegant, wasn’t subtle, and wasn’t fun.

“There must be another way.” 

“Probably,” Kit agreed. 

“Do you really believe that?” he wondered. “Or are you just saying it?”

Kit shrugged. “I'll be delighted if you can come up with a better idea. Mine is pretty crazy.”

If he had convinced her, if he had made her believe that they could do better, _be_ better, wasn’t that proof that he was right? That they _had_ to take an honorable course?

And yet.

Celene had seized an opportunity of Gaspard’s making and turned it to her own ends. What if she tried again? What if she learned from her failure at Halamshiral? Kit had told him they were walking into a trap; she’d been warned. They’d armed themselves against it. Next time, they might not be so lucky.

And if she died—his heart squeezed violently just at the thought—would he care that he’d clung to his ideals?

Not. At. All.

Sometimes—no. This wasn’t an exception to the rule, one of those ‘difficult choices that had to be made’. Protecting Kit, keeping her safe, _was_ an ideal. Everything else came second. Principles meant nothing if you failed those you loved.

 _That_ was why she’d let him choose. She hadn’t converted to his way of thinking—the mere idea was absurd. She wanted to protect him just as he wanted to protect her. Hadn’t Cole said that once? She was willing to put her very life in danger to _preserve his feelings._

She’d stain her conscience black as coal if it would serve the people she loved. He’d watched her do it, again and again.

“Wait,” he said.

 _Was_ there another way? What if they had the Crow finish his grisly work but took responsibility for the act, openly? But the result of that was obvious: war. He sorted through different solutions as though he were playing a game of chess, thinking three moves ahead, finding disaster no matter which path he chose.

Everyone hated Corypheus. Shifting the blame onto him be simpler, cleaner, than any other possibility.

“We’ll do it,” he said.

Kit’s eyes widened in shock.

“Though I appreciate this exercise in moral philosophy, I must point out its fatal flaw,” said the Crow, “Gaspard hired me. He will recognize me, even if I hide my ears and wear a black robe.”

“I’ll take care of Gaspard,” said a new voice. A woman’s, with a thick Orlesian accent.

Cullen started and turned to the unattended door, where a petite, masked elf stood. He didn’t recognize her, but Kit seemed to—and she was not happy.

“Why should we trust you?” asked Kit.

The woman raised and lowered one shoulder. “You have no choice. I’ve been listening at the door for the past ten minutes.”

Cullen shifted his grip on his sword. Of course they had a choice. They could kill her.

“Now, now, let’s not do anything rash,” said the newcomer. “I wouldn’t want anything to stand in the way of our budding friendship.”

“This is Briala,” said Kit. “She’s here on behalf of the elven rebellion, but apparently she used to be Celene’s spymaster. Maybe her lover.”

Briala froze. “Leliana?”

Kit nodded.

“Celene was responsible for the deaths of my parents.” Briala’s gaze slid with oily suggestiveness to Cullen. “It seems you have it in your heart to be forgiving, Inquisitor. I do not.”

Cullen shuddered. No, she did not sound forgiving.

Instead of replying, Kit began untying the ropes binding the Crow to Celene’s bed. “I have no doubt that Briala can do as she promises, but we should prepare for all outcomes. If something goes wrong, try to reach Skyhold. The Inquisition will offer you sanctuary… and a position, if you should want one.”

The Crow got one hand free and immediately joined Kit in her work, plucking at the knots that held him captive.

“The worst thing would be for Briala to betray us,” Kit continued. “She might neglect to do her part. She might take our plans directly to Celene. That could easily put an end to the Inquisition.”

Though ostensibly speaking to the Crow, it was clear that she meant every word for the elven spymaster.

“That would leave you in a pretty shitty position,” said Kit, working on one of the Crow’s ankles while he scooted toward the other. “You’d get yourself in trouble and then we wouldn’t be around to provide the help we promised.”

“That is a worry,” the Crow admitted. “You will forgive me for troubling over my own unworthy self.”

“Not at all,” said Kit. “But I have a solution. Are you interested?”

“I am beginning to suspect I’d find anything you have to say very interesting indeed,” said the Crow.

“So here’s the deal,” said Kit. “If Briala betrays us, you’ll kill her.”

The Crow paused what he was doing to stare at Kit. Briala smiled appreciatively, which was exactly the response he’d have expected from an Orlesian.

He noted that Kit hadn’t asked him before giving the order. He wondered what she’d do if he objected; consenting to one assassination ought not to mean that he’d granted blanket approval.

“I’m sure I’d find this revenge very satisfying,” said the Crow, “but I do not see how it would make me any safer.”

“Because she’ll be the last living witness to this conversation,” said Kit. “After that, go to Skyhold. Ask to speak to Enchanter Nina. Tell her that I authorized the contract and guaranteed your payment.”

“I believe we have already spoken of the large sums involved…”

“They can afford it,” said Kit. “They’ll pay out both contracts. Double whatever Gaspard promised.”

“Very well,” said the Crow. “I accept.”

“So,” said Kit. “I hope that we’re all acting in good faith. I’m excited to work with Briala. The elven rebellion seems like a worthy cause. And, of course, I trust your professional expertise.”

The Crow preened.

“But we three have a stake in this mess,” said Kit. “You’re just a guy doing a job. So if everything goes to shit, it’s only fair that you’d be the one to walk away into the sunset with a great big bag of gold tossed over one shoulder. Don’t you think?”

“Your reasoning is impeccable,” said the Crow.

Kit turned back to Briala. “You did me a favor earlier tonight, and I’m sorry it has to be this way…”

“Don’t worry,” said Briala. “Your precautions set my mind at ease.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” said Kit. “I need some black cloth.”

“I can find it for you,” said Briala, slipping out of the room.

“I’ll go warn Leliana and Josephine,” said Cullen.

 

*****

 

Kit's initial impulse had been to send Cullen away in ignorance while she carried out her plan. She didn't want this on his conscience. Plus, if the Crow failed and Celene survived, he’d have been able to plead innocence. He’d have had a chance of surviving to see morning.

But keeping him in ignorance wasn’t a kindness. He’d had enough of that as a Templar.

So she’d given him the choice. She’d expected him to veto her proposal and she didn’t know what to make of his acquiescence. It bothered her.

“Here,” said Briala, returning to the bedroom with her arms full of black cloth.

The elf tossed it all on the bed and Kit began sorting through the options—black gowns, black sheets, black coats.

Venatori robes were made from very light, very fine-spun wool; extremely luxurious garments, really, suited for people who thought themselves chosen to rule. She discarded anything with a sheen to it, all the silks and satins, which meant most of the dresses. Then she put anything stiff or cheap to the side. Finally, she called her spirit blade to hand and set to work.

“So, Crow. You have a name?” Kit asked, tossing aside the sleeves of a wonderful spring-weight coat that she’d just cut into pieces.

“Zevran,” he answered.

“Nice to meet you, Zevran.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

“I did not expect the Inquisitor to be a tailor,” said Briala.

“You know, everyone says that,” said Kit. “Sort of makes me wish I’d spent my years in the Circle learning to make bombs instead of toys. I get the feeling that would be very Andrastean of me.”

Briala began to laugh.

“I, for one, am grateful,” said Zevran. “It was starting to get chilly.”

“I never would have known to look at you,” said Kit, patting him on the knee. “It’s a shame to cover you up, really.”

“And what would your most tall and threatening Commander say if he heard you?”

“I don’t know, but if he wanted an apology I could think of a dozen creative ways to offer one,” said Kit with a wink.

She laid out the panels on the bed as she cut them, trimming and adjusting as needed. Then she dismissed the spirit blade and sealed the seams, creating a capacious robe with long loose sleeves and a peaked hood.

“Try this on,” she said at last, passing the makeshift Venatori robe to Zevran.

It swallowed him for a moment, before he popped his head through the neck. He strode back and forth across the room, swinging his arms and legs, leaping on and off the furniture. Testing his range of motion.

“I prefer my leathers,” he concluded.

“It looks good,” said Briala. “If you don’t get caught, nobody will spot it as a fake.”

“I had a run in with some Venatori recently, so the memory of what they wear is still fresh,” said Kit.

“I’m satisfied,” said Briala. “I’ll have the bodies of the mercenaries removed before I return to the ball. Wait a few minutes before you follow. We don’t want to be seen together.”

Briala left.

“You don’t have a weapon,” Kit said.

“Celene locked them in a storage room nearby,” said Zevran. “Come with me.”

He led her out into the atrium and to a small sitting room whose most interesting feature was a wall safe with the most complicated locking mechanism Kit had ever seen. It had dials and runes and gears and five different keyholes.

Zevran picked it in seconds.

“Wow,” said Kit.

“Size isn’t everything,” said Zevran.

Kit rolled her eyes but couldn’t help but reply, “At least when you’ve got really clever fingers.”

“If that bear of a man ever leaves you, allow me to be first in line to offer you a lifetime of devotion.”

Zevran collected the daggers, safely sheathed inside a collection of harnesses which he strapped to his person on by one, underneath the Venatori robe.

It took a while.

“You work with Leliana, is that right?”

Kit nodded.

“How is she?”

Kit snorted. “I’m not answering that question.”

“Why not?” Zevran smiled whimsically. “I am one of her oldest and dearest friends, you know.”

“Funnily enough, a couple of hours ago someone else claimed to be an old friend of hers, and she _clearly_ did not share the sentiment,” said Kit.

“Your loyalty is a balm to my cold, withered heart,” said Zevran. “What do you think of her?”

Kit paused. “I think she’s capable of anything. Big or small. Good or bad.”

“That’s because she is,” said Zevran, cinching the last strap into place. And then he snatched up a small wooden amulet—very plain, something Kit could have carved in half an hour, not the sort of thing one would expect to find in a well-protected vault.

“Why don’t you take this,” he said.

Kit took the amulet. “Do you know what it is?”

“Blackmail material,” he said. “If Briala or Celene give you trouble, this might get you out.”

She pocketed it. “Thanks.”

“I wish everyone who hired me took as much care for my safety as you have,” said Zevran. “Now, on to the evening’s grand finale, yes?”

Back in the ballroom, the crush of people overwhelmed her. The bright gowns clashed, the sparkle of jewels blinded her. The chamber orchestra, which she’d first thought divine, reached her ears as a dissonant shrieking noise.

When Cullen saw her, he nodded solemnly. She would have liked to stand with him, or Leliana, or even Josephine, but was afraid to. It would be too easy to give herself away.

What was the least suspicious thing she could do?

How long could she do it for?

Kit turned to the person next to her and asked, “How about a dance?”

The nearest person turned out to be a woman with white-blond hair, long on the top and shorn almost to the skull on the sides, wearing a gown that looked something like a butterfly’s wings.

Were women allowed to dance with women in Orlais? She should have checked to see how many of the dancers on the ballroom floor were same sex. She didn’t want to do anything odd just now.

“What a charming idea,” said the woman, immediately offering her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I am Grand Duchesse Florianne de Chalons. And you are the Inquisitor.”

“Oh!” Kit searched for an appropriate reaction. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Your Grace.”

She had never heard of this woman before.

Florianne laughed and drew her down to the dance floor. “I am Gaspard’s younger sister.”

“Oh!” said Kit. Gaspard had a sister?

“And one of Celene’s ladies in waiting,” Florianne continued, linking their hands.

“That… sound like a really difficult job.”

They spun into a turn and Florianne used the opportunity to whisper, “It really is,” in Kit’s ear.

Once they’d separated, she switched to a more normal tone of voice. “You are from the Free Marches, are you not? How much do you know about our little war?”

“It doesn’t matter where you’re from,” said Kit. _“Everyone_ knows what’s happening in the Empire.”

“The same could be said of you, Inquisitor,” returned Florianne, with a coquettish smile that must have fit her pretty features well when she was younger but now only drew attention to the hardness that had com with age. “You are a matter of curiosity to many and a matter of concern to some.”

Kit suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and say something rude. “Am I a curiosity or a concern to you?”

“A little of both. I know you are looking for allies, but in the winter palace, everyone is alone. It cannot have escaped your notice that—”

Glass shattered high above in a startling cacophony that brought the chamber orchestra to a jangled, disorganized halt. The dancers ceased their whirling; everyone looked up, toward the noise, even as shards of glass rained onto their exposed faces.

Kit, who’d been _expecting_ something dramatic, still flinched.

A black robed figure fell through the shattered skylight, grabbing hold of one the two massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling to break his fall.

Zevran.

He swung himself at the wall, but instead of hitting it he grabbed a a knob-shaped flower on the crown molding and used it to stabilize himself. He made two short jumps along the wall and then launched himself onto the _other_ chandelier, which brought him almost directly above Celene.

“Venatori!” cried Cassandra, fumbling at her waist for the sword she no longer wore. “Kill him!”

Vivienne flung ice at Zevran, but he kept ahead of her volleys. He took the threat of her spells seriously enough to drop from the chandelier _right onto her head_ , however, knocking her flat.

Celene backed away from the assassin even as Cassandra charged forward, trying to protect the Empress with her own, unarmored body. It didn’t work. The robes of the Divine impeded her movements and Zevran simply danced around her, slashing Celene’s throat in a single vicious swipe.

“ _For Corypheus_!” Zevran declared, his Antivan accent giving the words just enough foreign flavor to cement the illusion that he was a Tevinter supremacist.

Guards poured in, but they didn’t stand a chance. While they pushed and shoved at the panicking guests, Zevran ran along the balustrade ringing the upper story of the ballroom and disappeared through one of the balconies.

Celene clutched her throat but nothing could stanch the flow of blood, pouring through her fingers and collecting along the neckline of her bejeweled gown, soaking into the heavy fabric. The Empress staggered; her attempts to remain upright made her fall surprisingly graceful, a slow swoon to the hard marble floor.


	69. what we are, what we were, what we will be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, I've got 500 kudos! That's a large number! I am verklempt. 
> 
> I ended up deleting most of this chapter and re-writing it, but better to get it right I think. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

Kit backed up against the nearest wall and huddled against it to avoid the stampede of aristocrats, trampling anything in their path toward the doors. Mostly one another, and they were vicious.

Guards entered in pairs, shouting for calm and herding people toward the exit. Kit needed to see what would happen next, though, so she slipped up the stairs and hid behind one of the thick velvet curtains framing the balcony doors.

Which gave her an excellent view of Leliana, Gaspard, and Briala on the opposite balcony, whispering at one another.

“It’s not too late!” Vivienne shouted, wobbly but on her feet. “I have a tincture in my rooms—made from the the heart of a snowy wyvern—bring it to me, and I can save her!”

But nobody listened; the pages and couriers had fled, the guards were busy, none of the guests willing or able. 

Vivienne, searching the room for help that did not come, spied Kit in her hiding spot. Rage sharpened her features, but she’d never been a hothead. She continued her fruitless survey before dropping to her knees by the Empress. A green glow lit her face, spilled through the gaps in the marble balustrade, and Kit sucked in a lungful of fear. Was it possible that Vivienne could heal Celene?

Cassandra tore the hat from her head, tossed it onto the dance floor with an angry shout, and began pacing back and forth, lit by the green glow of Vivienne’s spirit magic.

The whisperers on the balcony opposite broke apart. Gaspard, jaw thrust forward pugnaciously, mouth a thin white seam, went to join the cluster of people surrounding Celene. Leliana disappeared into the shadows while Briala leaned against the doorway, one hand on her hip and one ankle jauntily crossed over the other, a smile playing about her mouth.

Kit twitched when she heard a soft flapping noise behind her. She turned to see Leliana, still in a crouch from jumping down from the roof, skirts balled up in one fist. The spymaster stood, smoothed her gown, and advanced to Kit’s side.

“It seems that Orlais has a new ruler,” said Leliana, nodding across the way at Briala.

“Really?” Kit said, shocked.

“Oh, Gaspard will wear the crown,” said Leliana. “But he’s built a reputation as a chevalier, a man of honor who disdains the Game. If his part in this evening’s events were to come out, it would ruin him.”

“So she’s blackmailing him?” Kit asked.

Leliana nodded. “He’s agreed to grant her the title of Marquise, putting the Dales under her direct control. I made it clear we expected him to stand by the deal.”

“The threat doesn’t work both ways?” Kit wondered. “We have a reputation to uphold, too.”

“We don’t need to worry about Gaspard. He can’t hurt us without hurting himself more. But Briala…” Leliana nodded. “I doubt the Dalish would be sorry to learn of her part in this. She’s gained a great deal of leverage over us today.”

“But if her relationship Celene were more widely known…” Knowing that Briala was watching, Kit pulled the wooden amulet that Zevran had given her from her pocket. “The elven rebellion would probably react the same way as the rebel mages did, when they found out about Cullen and me.”

Leliana took the amulet and tucked it into the bodice of her gown. A dimple dented one of her cheeks. “You know, I think tonight went really well.”

Kit snorted.

Vivienne stood up. Blood stained her ice blue gown, coated her hands and arms like a pair of grisly, glistening gloves. Her closed expression revealed nothing… and everything.

She had not been able to save Celene.

“Time to go?” Kit wondered.

“I’ll collect Josephine,” said Leliana. “You can look for Cullen. He vanished almost as quickly as the assassin.”

Kit made her way toward the double doors, still flung wide. She tried to steer clear of the crowd huddled around Celene’s body but Vivienne blocked her way, grabbing Kit’s arm to hold her fast.

“You knew this would happen,” said Vivienne, intense emotion thickening her chill, smooth voice.

“We _all_ knew,” said Kit. “Remember the nightmare future in Redcliffe? I told everyone who would listen.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re hiding something. Whatever it is, I _will_ find out.”

“ _Find out_?” Kit swallowed her fear—she was fairly sure that Vivienne could smell fear—and rolled her eyes. “What do you think is going on? Am I in league with the Venatori now?”

Vivienne didn’t reply, but her fingernails dug painfully into the soft flesh of Kit’s upper arm. She’d leave a bloody handprint behind and probably didn’t understand the irony, but it made Kit want to vomit.

“Or maybe you’re thinking of this as a game?” Kit went on, because she was an idiot. “You’re imagining all of us as little pieces of carved stone on a board somewhere, hopping from square to square. And it might look, if you stick to this shitty view of the world, like we’re playing against one another. You got Philip killed, I lost a pawn. And now that Celene is dead, it probably looks an awful lot like I took your queen.” 

Kit paused. 

Vivienne stood taller and taller, stretching out her spine until she looked to be seven feet tall.

“But seriously, Vivienne, don’t you ever get tired of comparing life to a game?” Kit asked. “Always the same thing. Game game game. It’s really boring. Can’t you try, like, absolutely _any other metaphor_? Just for variety's sake? Life is like a dance. Life is like a play. Life is like a box of Orlesian chocolates. Sometimes you get anise, sometimes you get deep mushroom.” Kit yanked her arm from Vivienne’s grip. “Today you got deep mushroom. There you go. New metaphor. Have fun with it. Enjoy Val Royaux.”

Kit made her way out of the ballroom, finally. She felt an itch between her shoulder blades, a creepy crawly sensation of being _marked_. It took all her willpower, but she didn’t turn around to look over her shoulder until she’d turned into the sculpture garden, passed through it, turned again into the long, windowed gallery… and by then she was beginning to hyperventilate.

Vivienne was good at almost everything. She was _especially_ good at finding things out.

Kit shook herself—literally and bodily shook herself, head and arms and shoulders and hips. It cut down on the jitters, but the bloody handprint on her sleeve still felt like a brand.

She found Cullen in the dark, out of the way garden where they’d armed themselves earlier that evening. He was leaning over the same balustrade they’d jumped over to reach the courtyard below, where they’d encountered the Ferelden mercenaries.

Kit followed his stare, but all she saw below was the fountain, gurgling pleasantly in the silence.

“You okay?” she asked, reaching out to slip an arm around his waist.

He intercepted the move, though, dragging her in front of him.

“All my life people have asked me to do things I knew were wrong for a good cause,” said Cullen. “And I did, willingly, because I believed.”

“But you hated it and it hurt you and so you _quit_ ,” said Kit, her chest tightening. She should have— _could have_ —predicted this, but she hadn’t expected him to agree to the assassination. She hadn’t hadn’t considered the consequences. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to put you in this position.”

“Of course you did,” he said. “You asked me what to do. You gave me the choice. What do I want? What will I give up to have it? My career? My faith? You?”

"Cullen—"

“Let me say this. You think I’m a good man, but I’m not,” he said, a rough, uneven voice in her ear, disembodied and confessional. “I want to be, but I’m not.”

“Hey.” Kit wriggled in his arms. He squeezed her tighter and tighter but wasn’t willing to hurt her, so at last she was able to turn and face him, to wrap her arms around him and hold tight. “You’re the best _I’ve_ ever met.”

He made a broken, incoherent noise and pressed his lips to the top of her head, exhaled hot air onto her scalp.

"I hated it too," said Kit, her voice muffled by the wool of his jacket. "What we did tonight." 

When she was angry, everything seemed clean. Not right; not good. Clean. She felt regret about things that she'd done, like seizing Skyhold while the Inquisition besieged Adamant. But she would have felt more regret if she'd let the opportunity pass by. Anger, like fire, could purify. 

She hadn't been angry this evening. She'd played the Game. She'd killed in cold blood. She'd lied and deceived, pretended innocence and cast blame where it didn't belong. 

She felt sick.

It was strange. She knew that Cullen had gone along with her plan for her sake, out of love. But she'd come up with it for his sake, out of love. Now neither of them were happy. 

"I hated it too," she repeated. 

“Kit, I—” He pulled away, fumbled between them, then braceleted her arm with one of his big hands and stroked, slow and deliberate, all the way down to the wrist. He used this grip to guide her hand between them, to slip it through the newly-unbuttoned flaps of his jacket to rest, fingers outspread, against his bare chest.

Kit gasped. His skin was hot—so hot—and silky, his heart beating right beneath her fingers. Each hard thump vibrated through his chest and into her palm, into her bones.

It was unexpectedly, shockingly intimate. The humid heat of his body, trapped and collected by his formal clothing, enveloped one small part of her while the cool night air raised gooseflesh along her arms and a breeze set her hair to tickling her neck.

Her mind went blank, everything but the solid, physical connection between them fuzzing into irrelevance.

One of his hands fell to the curve of her waist, squeezing and massaging as it trailed up and down, up and down, from the underside of her breasts to the swell of her hip. He cupped her cheek, kissed her temple and the corner of her eye, never giving her a full view of his face.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.

“You’re—”

He moved his thumb to pin her lips shut.

 _Not going to lose me_ , she couldn’t say.

“I need—” A soft smacking noise as he licked his lips. Instead of finishing his sentence, he dragged his hand down the swell of her rump. The muscles along his arm hardened to stone as he pulled her tight to him, the thick bar of his erection digging into the soft flesh of her belly. He was breathing heavily, his chest expanding and contracting like a great bellows.

Kit whimpered. He’d caged her with his body. She couldn’t move without a struggle. Without working _against_ him, when all she wanted was to get closer.

She bucked, a silent protest. He turned them, flattened her against a wall, surrounded her with his weight and his smell and the rhythmic kneading of his hands until she went limp and pliant.

“I need the way you look at me,” he said. “I need the way you hold me and touch me. I was hollow as a drum, a suit of armor with nothing inside, and now I’m alive again—”

She felt a scratching at her thigh and then cool air swirled around her ankles, her calves. He was rucking up her skirt. His hand settled between her legs. He pressed his palm against her clit; every twitch of her hips against that solid pressure sent shivers of pleasure up her spine.

“I realized what this was about.” His gaze dipped to her breasts… no, to her dress. The Circle robes she wore. “You keep telling me I’ll always be a Templar. And every time I think—but it’s not about me, is it? It’s about you. You say it because you’ll always be a mage. It will always come first.”

Kit blinked several times, struggling to think straight.

“They’ll take you back, you know,” he said. “They’ll welcome you with open arms. And that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Kit twisted her head to get a good angle and bit his thumb. She was half crazed with lust and she’d never heard him say the words _I want_ or _I need_ so many times in her life, if he’d ever said them at all, and she didn’t know what was happening but felt vaguely tricked.

His eyes widened, but his only reaction was to wriggle his hand deeper into her crotch, the tips of his fingers slick and probing. It didn’t take long before she forgot to bite and started to suck.

“Maker’s breath,” he murmured, pulling his abused thumb free. It landed damply on her breast a moment later as he bent forward, touching his forehead to hers. “Say that you won’t leave me.”

“I won’t leave you,” said Kit.

He kissed her, open-mouthed, tongue tangling with hers, rocking into her with his whole body though she could still only feel his bare skin in two places: her hand over his heart, his hand on her cunt.

She broke the kiss and pressed her cheek to his, to make it harder for him to silence her.

“Cullen,” she said. “I’m not going to leave you. I love you, remember? I’m not going to leave.”

“When this is over,” he said, jerky, almost stuttering. “It’ll all be over.”

“I won’t leave.”

A long pause.

“I want to believe you.” He swallowed audibly. “I want—”

He broke off, but she understood.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Always.”

He shifted, freed himself. Hefted her and held her suspended, shoulder pinned to the wall and hips in the air, as he thrust. She squirmed and panted, startled by the angle; he went deep.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling out. “I’m—”

This time _she_ shut him up with a kiss, snaring his lips and inhaling deeply, breathing his air, inviting him. _Yes_.

He pushed in again, hard. She whimpered, flecks of bright white swimming across the red haze of her shut eyes, but he’d done hesitating. He eased out so slowly that she shivered, static electricity raising the fine hairs on her arms, then snapped his hips home with such force that she gasped. Again and again, until she felt like she was floating a few inches above her own body and he began to lose his rhythm. He ground into her, pumping shallowly, the bruising grip that had held her immobile and pinned to the wall actually _tightening_ as he came.

“I love you,” she murmured as he pulled out and released her, wordless. She raked her fingers through his hair and didn’t protest when he bent to bury his face in the crook of her neck. “I love you,” she said again. She’d say it a thousand times if that’s what he needed. She’d say it until he believed, and then again for good measure.

And if she felt something warm and damp on her neck, smeared away and almost dry before he stood straight and tidied his clothes, well. Nobody had to know.


	70. interlude

Cullen left Skyhold’s small Chantry feeling lighter than when he entered. Prayer couldn’t erase his troubles, but it always helped him bear them. Peace, faith, order—these were the tools to carve a world of strife into manageable pieces.

He paused in the garden, tipping his face up to the sky. This little corner of Skyhold always felt like it had been chipped loose from some other world, at some other elevation. The light shaded from gold to bronze and back again. Every herb and flower they planted shot up green and glowing no matter its native soil. Skyhold merged with the mountains, shared their spirit: strong, forbidding, _cold_. Everywhere except for in this tiny square of cloistered green that cloaked itself in endless summer.

_The peace is inside_. That was what he’d missed during his years as a Templar. He’d projected his inner turmoil onto the world outside of him. He had been troubled, and so he’d perpetually expected trouble from mages and Qunari and Marian Hawke, too. Looked for villains in bustling markets and shadowy courtyards alike. If someone had brought peace to Kirkwall—even the idea was a preposterous fantasy, but _if_ —he would never have recognized it. Never have admitted it.

Peace, faith and order—where it _mattered_. Inside.

Yes. Prayer helped, especially when he had enough time to shed his superficial worries. He’d had the whole morning to himself because he hadn’t seen Kit the night before. She’d shingled his roof after they returned from Halamshiral— _herself_ , which had been more than slightly embarrassing. Even if the soldiers and couriers passing through his office _wanted_ to ignore her interest in his domicile, the sound of her hammering had made it very difficult.

But she’d managed it in a day and ever since, on the nights when he didn’t join her in her tower suite, she’d climb into his loft and fall asleep while he worked into the wee hours.

He had tried to formalize the arrangement, at least a little (“ _We should make a habit of this_ ”), and she had agreed. More or less. She’d ducked under the covers and taken hold of his hips to keep him still… well, it had _felt_ like agreement.

In any case, they hadn’t yet reached a point where he could expect her to warn him if she preferred to sleep alone.

Dorian was already sitting under the vine-draped trellis, arranging the chessboard. He looked up as Cullen approached and smiled his peculiar smile—first his upper lip hitched and then, after a slight delay, his lips curved. As though he’d meant to sneer and been interrupted unexpectedly by something pleasant. 

“How much are they paying you?” asked Dorian. “Because if you’ve made enough to splurge on ivory baubles, it must be more than I’m getting.”

“Splurge?” Cullen asked absently, his attention caught by the tiny figures Dorian had nearly finished arranging. The chessboard was built into the tabletop, a simple mosaic of marble and obsidian. But the pieces were new. “On what?”

“Which is nothing, by the way,” Dorian continued. “As satisfying as it is to devote myself to a good cause, a clean conscience alone cannot keep me in silks and fine wine.”

“Did you buy these?” Cullen asked, picking up one of the knights. A smooth cream-colored material, light, warm to the touch—bone of some kind, beautifully carved and inlaid with gold. The opposing side’s pieces featured silver detailing. “They’re very fine.”

“I thought _you_ had,” said Dorian. “They were here when I arrived. You didn’t bring them back from Orlais?”

“Kit.” Cullen looked up at the tower balcony. Empty, of course. “She must have made them.”

Dorian tsked. “I tell you, that girl’s talents are _wasted_ on mindless slaughter.”

Cullen returned the piece to its square. But when he sat down across from Dorian he couldn’t resist the urge to touch, to skim his fingers over the rows of silver-embellished ivory and tap each one, lightly, acknowledging it as his. “They’re exquisite.”

“If you’re lucky, next time she’ll try her hand at tailoring.” Dorian jerked his chin in Cullen’s direction and this time he _did_ sneer. “Make something to replace that mangy pelt you insist on wearing—what is it? A lion’s mane attached to a silk scarf? It looks like the sartorial lovechild of a Rivaini dancer and an Avvar chief.”

“I like my mantle. And so does Kit, by the way.” Cullen moved his pawn. “She wears it often enough.”

“She…” Dorian grinned, eyes twinkling. “Commander, did you just say something _suggestive_?”

Cullen bit back a smile. “Hardly.”

“I believe our foul-mouthed friend is having a good influence.”

“Is that how it works?” Cullen propped his chin on his fist and waited for Dorian to take his turn. “I wonder if I could convince her to stop swearing.”

Dorian snorted.

“Probably not,” Cullen agreed. Then, feeling optimistic, “Given enough time, though…”

Dorian hummed noncommittally and moved his knight, angling it toward the perimeter. Cullen responded by bringing one of his mages into play. Two moves later he captured Dorian's knight... but, in the end, he lost the match.

Only because he was rusty, of course. All that time spent traveling.

He paused as he set up the pieces for a rematch. “Dorian, do you think—”

“All the time,” said Dorian. “It’s a hobby. Passes the time. Reveals a great many people to be idiots and bores. Not sure I can recommend it.”

Cullen scowled.

“Oh, very well.” Dorian sighed. “Do I think what?”

“You’ve spent enough time with Kit to know her fairly well,” said Cullen. “Do you think she could be happy living a quiet life? Comfortable and, er, _ordinary_?”

“You’ll forgive me, Commander, but I’m going to answer your question with one of my own.” Dorian steepled his fingers, elbows propped against the arms of his chair and legs sprawled loose in front of him. “Could _you_ be happy living such a life?”

“Of course,” said Cullen. “I’ve always planned, eventually—”

Dorian interrupted with a cluck of his tongue. “I don’t care what grindingly boring, ‘idyllic’ vision of the future you clung to while Kirkwall went up in flames. The fact of the matter is that you haven’t experienced ‘quiet’ or ‘ordinary’ in so long I’m not sure you have a realistic notion of what it would be like.”

“True. But this”—Cullen gestured around them, at nothing and at everything—“can’t last forever. We won’t always be in the thick of things, holding the future in our hands. The Inquisition will end.”

“And you’ll have no choice but to put down your sword, pick up a spade, and learn to grow cucumbers?” Dorian shook his head. “If you want my honest opinion, Cullen, I don’t think you’d take well to an early retirement. You weren’t made to be idle.”

“Not _idle_ , but—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a raven dived between them, wings angled to slow its precipitous descent and clawed feet outstretched. Just before it hit the ground the bird shimmered and transformed into a woman. Tall and slender, wearing a skimpy rag for a shirt and a skirt of poorly cured rawhide, she nonetheless had a proud, elegant bearing. And piercing, yellow eyes.

Morrigan.

He’d never met her—Neria had kept Morrigan well away from Kinloch Hold during the Blight—but he’d read about her, along with all the others, and Leliana had reported the witch’s role in their maneuvering at Halamshiral.

He took a firm hold of the hilt of his sword.

“That’s quite a skill,” said Dorian. “Teach me?”

“No,” Morrigan said flatly, scanning the tower and surrounding battlements. “I need to speak with Leliana. Can one of you take me to her?”

“What do you want from Leliana?” Cullen asked, at the same time as Dorian said, “You know, the most direct route to our spymaster _is_ through the air. Her slice of the rotunda has an entrance just for birds.”

Morrigan’s lips firmed, a faint sign of irritation. “I _suppose_ that’s an answer.”

“I’ll take you to her.” Cullen stood before Morrigan could transform again. “Dorian, tomorrow—?”

“Same time, same place,” Dorian agreed.

Cullen gestured for Morrigan to follow. He led her into the passage that connected the cloister garden to the great hall but paused as soon as they were alone in the cramped corridor.

“Lady Morrigan?” he asked.

Morrigan’s eyes widened. “You know me?”

“I know _of_ you,” said Cullen. “More importantly, I command the Inquisition’s military forces.”

“ _Ah_ ,” said Morrigan knowingly. As though she’d teased some secret out of him. “The _Commander_.”

“I’d like to know why you’ve come,” he said.

“I’ve located Corypheus and his army. I thought the information might be of interest to you.”

He replayed her response several times in his mind, afraid that he’d misheard. “You’re certain?”

“Quite,” said Morrigan. Then, tartly, “You may have noticed that I can transform into a _bird_. I made a through survey of his camp.”

“Then we must act quickly.”

Once they reached the great hall, he sent a page to tell Leliana and Kit join him in the War Room immediately. Then, on second thought, he sent a second page to fetch Varric, Dorian, and Solas—they’d been with the Inquisition from the beginning, through the near-disaster of Adamant, and he’d want to hear their thoughts.

He collected Josephine on the way to the War Room, Morrigan still trailing behind.

Varric arrived next, peering about as though this were his first time in the War Room when Cullen knew for a fact that he’d snooped through the whole castle. He’d probably already worked an exaggerated, inaccurate description of it into his next book.

Solas took one look at Morrigan and stretched to his full height, nose in the air, pointedly ignoring the witch.

Dorian ambled in with a wood-and-ivory inlaid box tucked under his arm, which he handed to Cullen. Judging by the weight, the rattle, and the box’s craftsmanship, it held the chess pieces.

“Soooo,” Dorian smiled at Morrigan. “While we wait. That spell?”

Luckily, Leliana arrived before Morrigan could turn Dorian into a toad and try to pass it off as instruction.

Kit came in last, wearing a long drooping sweater whose sleeves stretched well past the tips of her fingers, eyes puffy and half-shut, covering her mouth as she yawned.

“I’d only just fallen asleep,” she complained. “This had better be good.”

“Feel free to return to your nap,” said Morrigan. “I’m sure Corypheus will wait.”

“Corypheus?” Kit sighed glumly. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

“Lady Morrigan says she’s found him,” said Cullen.

“She has?” Solas asked. “Where?”

“The Emerald Graves,” said Morrigan. “His army has set up camp around an ancient elven temple, as yet unbreached and unplundered.”

“After all this time?” Solas gripped the edge of the table and leaned over it, his lean body stiff with tension. “Did you note any sculptures or paintings? They can be used to identify which of the Creators the temple honors. If we knew that—”

“Mythal,” said Morrigan. “Which means he is likely seeking—”

“The Well of Sorrows,” Solas finished, releasing the table and returning to his usual, relaxed posture. “A foolish quest. One he will regret, should he succeed.”

“He _mustn’t_.” Morrigan scanned the assembled company, her voice too loud, too urgent. “You must stop him.”

“Must we?” Solas sniffed. “And what, exactly—”

“If Lady Morrigan can lead us to Corypheus, we will go to him,” Cullen interrupted. “We will gather our forces, we will face him and we will _destroy_ him. That is not open for debate. The only question is how.”

“He’s gathered a substantial army,” Morrigan warned. “Hundreds, at least, and all corrupted by red lyrium.”

_Samson_. Cullen’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His nemesis wouldn’t be able to flee again. Not if that meant abandoning his new master.

He’d finally have the confrontation he’d sought at the Shrine of Dumat.

“We can match his numbers and more,” said Cullen steadily. “We will field three of our men for every one of his. With scouts to map the area…” He paused, working through the possibilities. “I’ll send someone for Fiona. I spoke to her about organizing a contingent of mages before Adamant. She was willing, and if our destination is an elven temple...”

“Fiona’s gone,” said Leliana. “She appointed herself liaison to the Ferelden court and moved to Denerim.”

“Who thought _that_ was a good idea?” Kit yawned again, covering her mouth with her wool-sheathed palm. “Fiona is _really_ weird about royalty. Tongue ties up in knots the second the King walks in the room. The princess, too. And Rose is _seven_.”

“Then Kit, perhaps…?” It would be good to have her at his side, and she’d seen enough battle to try her hand at leading.

“That won’t be possible,” said Josephine. “Varric has spent the past weeks convincing a deputation of Free Marcher nobles to visit Skyhold and they could arrive any day. We may not be able to convince Starkhaven, but the other city states might be interested in our proposal.”

“We want them to feel important,” said Varric. “That means introducing them to the Herald of Andraste.”

“Who will be _very polite_ ,” Josephine added, an edge to her tone. “For once.”

Kit groaned.

“Well, if you _insist_ …” Dorian began.

“I will gather a company,” interrupted Solas. “If we enter the temple, you will need my knowledge and expertise. My explorations of the Fade have given me an unparalleled understanding of elven lore...”

“Of course,” said Cullen, trying to hide his disappointment. “Seek volunteers, first. If the numbers aren’t enough…”

“We can send to Ferelden and Orlais,” Josephine suggested. “They’ve promised aid.”

“We’ll surround Corypheus’s army. Approach from all sides, close off his avenues of escape.” He could picture it. They needed more information, but if this worked? They had him. “We have a plan. Let’s get to work.”

The others began to file out. Morrigan approached Leliana, who linked arms with the witch and began to speak in a whisper.

Cullen hooked an arm around Kit’s waist and pulled her against him. He bent his lips to her ear and murmured, “What do I have to do to make sure you get the rest you need?”

She shivered. Gratifying, that.

“The chess pieces?” he asked.

She tipped her face up. “Do you like them?”

He kissed her temple, breathing in the light, spicy scent of her shampoo. “More than I can say.”

“Something to keep you occupied on the march, I guess.” And then her voice dropped, her lashes fell to shield her eyes. “Try to come back safe.”


	71. too good to be true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sorry for the long wait," is, at this point, a laughable understatement. If you're reading--wow. Thanks. I'm not sure what I did to deserve that kind of patience/faith but I appreciate it. 
> 
> I'm going to finish this thing up. I put too much into this story to abandon it when it's almost finished. So, here goes.

Cullen sighed and rubbed a knuckle into his temple, trying to grind his headache into submission.

The headache, much like _certain people_ who’d traveled with the army to the Arbor Wilds, proved intractable.

And by _certain people_ he meant Solas and Morrigan. They stood on either side of a crumbling statue of a howling wolf, yelling at one another. A few hours before that they’d been standing next to a statue of an elven archer, yelling at one another. Before that it had been a tree.

A _tree_.

“Enough,” he snapped. “Solas, Morrigan—”

The pair of them stopped their squabbling to glare at him, united—at last—in mutual dislike. Ah, mages.

“Solas, you’ve been relieved of command,” he said. “I’m attaching you and Morrigan to my company for the attack.”

This was the _last_ thing he wanted but an essential principle of good command. Find the weakest links, the stragglers and the mutineers, and keep them close. If Solas and Morrigan were with him, they wouldn’t be setting a bad example for the rest of the mages, reducing morale and endangering lives.

Solas drew himself very, very straight.

“The decision is final,” Cullen added evenly.

The apostate’s eyes flashed and his aura pulsed—enough that _Cullen_ could feel it and he’d lost most of his sensitivity to magic. But the elf managed to contain himself and, after a pause, nodded his acquiescence.

Cullen navigated the sprawling camp as the sun set off to the west, searching out the mages. Tall, wide-canopied trees blocked most of the light before it ever reached the forest floor, keeping the narrow paths and crystal clear streams cool and comfortable through the afternoon. The nights, however, were damp and chilly.

Eventually he located the woman who had once been Kit’s closest friend, doing what Solas had never bothered to do: drilling the volunteer battlemages.

She’d run them through drills every day since they left Skyhold. Judging by the skill and discipline of the volunteers, probably for a long time before that.

Cullen signaled. The mage excused herself, putting someone else in charge—the switch happened smoothly, without a hiccup. She had a competent lieutenant.

The mage paused in front of him, short and plump in battered leather armor, carrying a plain ironwood staff. Businesslike, unpretentious, everything a soldier ought to be. Right down to the carefully blank expression.

“Enchanter…” He’d only ever heard her called ‘Bits’, which couldn’t be her proper name.

“Belinda,” said the woman. “But I prefer Bits.”

“Enchanter Belinda,” said Cullen. “I’m raising you to command of the mage company. Solas and Morrigan will be with me during the assault; that leaves you in charge of the rest. Report to my command tent in…” He glanced up, saw trees instead of sky, and grimaced.

“One hour,” said Jim.

“In one hour,” finished Cullen.

She glared, of course. “Why me?”

“You’re competent. You’ve put the work in, training your fellow mages. They look up to you.”

She didn’t reply. He took that for assent and prepared to go. 

“Hey!” she called. “Wait!”

Cullen turned.

“You and Kit.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Aren’t you?”

“For what?” she snapped back. “I’m not a dirty—”

A few of the Templars lurking nearby edged closer, but Cullen waved them away. Let her clear the air. It would help. And besides, he had a few thoughts he wouldn't mind getting off his chest.

“You abandoned her when she needed you most,” he said.

“Because she betrayed us! For _you_.”

“Are you mad?” He fought against the urge to crowd her, to use his size to intimidate. He could do better. Be better. “What do you think I admire in her? Her sweet temperament? Her easy acceptance of other people’s opinions, her willingness to compromise? Have you _met_ Kit?”

Bits smirked.

“No,” he said. “I saw how hard she fought— _for you_. Not me. Everything the mages have right now, she bought. And she paid in _blood_ and _sweat_ and _pain_.”

Bits gaped.

He took a deep breath, surprised by the intensity of his own anger. “But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You turned on her the second she fell short.”

A red flush crept up the mage’s round cheeks. Good.

“And now I am promoting you—because _she_  convinced me that mages deserve autonomy and respect.” Cullen scanned the onlookers, all riveted to their confrontation. “One hour,” he repeated. “If you don’t show up, I’ll find someone else.”

He spent the hour in his command tent, tweaking his battle plans as scouts reported in. By the time his lieutenants arrived, he knew where Corypheus had stationed his troops and felt confident that the Inquisition coalition could defeat them.

“Corypheus’s army is clustered around the main entrance to the Temple,” he explained, gesturing to the large map he’d unfurled on his camp desk. “We’ll surround them, use mounted units to divide the main body of soldiers into smaller, more manageable groups. We have a strong advantage, both in numbers and in our position.”

He spoke briefly with each of his lieutenants, telling each where to deploy, pointing out hazards in the terrain.

“Time, however, is not on our side,” he continued, once again addressing everyone. “We need to break Corypheus’s army before they breach the Temple. Our elven experts”—Cullen gestured to Solas and Morrigan—“believe the Temple itself will prove dangerous, equipped with magical defenses to repel unwelcome intruders. These obstacles could be deadly.”

“Just so,” murmured Morrigan.

“Which is why no one is to enter the Temple of Mythal without my express command. And I mean no one.” Cullen surveyed his listeners, briefly meeting each set of eyes. “If we fail in our attack and Corypheus enters the Temple, do not follow. I—or, if I fall, the acting Commander—will lead the way, when the time comes. Is that clear?”

“Aye, Ser,” chorused his lieutenants—some with obvious reluctance.

“We attack at dawn,” Cullen concluded. “Dismissed.”

Bits, unsurprisingly, lingered. She hovered by the tent flaps, no doubt contemplating some new insult.

“Think carefully,” he said, very softly.

Bits bit her lip, nodded, and left.

Cullen slumped into his camp chair, massaged his temples. He'd done all he could. He'd field well-equipped, seasoned soldiers and they'd be fighting with every possible advantage. Greater numbers, higher ground. The prospect of a battle, of sending his people to fight and die, still made him feel sick.

Staying awake and worrying wouldn’t help anyone. But he knew the bed tucked against the far wall would remain untouched, the pillow undented. 

The odds had never been better. That was the problem.

If it looked too good to be true…

Maker protect them. If it looked too good to be true, it probably was.


	72. Hope is not a cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So after dropping the ball the last time I said that I wasn't going to post again until I had the whole fic finished. There wasn't much left (four chapters, as it turns out) and stuttering along with months between brief updates is stupid.
> 
> So finally, because I really hate leaving things unfinished, I sat down and... finished it. If I were in a different mood I could have gone to town on the Trespasser plot but this is really just a matter of finishing what I started--bringing as many threads as possible to a satisfying conclusion. 
> 
> This chapter took so long partly because I had to run through this fairly epic quest (WHAT PRIDE HAD WROUGHT) in order to make a couple (IMO) important tweaks, which is too much like transcription to be fun. 
> 
> So it covers a lot of familiar ground, which I apologize for. I left in a lot of the game dialogue just because the game and the fic run closely in parallel here. Might be too much, I don't know.

Some two hundred years before Cullen was born, a legendary Orlesian general had said, “No plan survives first contact with the enemy,” and the phrase had made its way into nearly every single book on military strategy published since.

He took comfort in the old wisdom during the Inquisition’s assault on the Temple of Mythal. His plans held for at least an hour after making contact with Corypheus’s forces. Maybe even _two_.

After that, though, everything went wrong. Pretty badly wrong.

He’d divided his troops into small groups nimble enough to traverse the uneven forest terrain, the soft earth and rocky streams, vine-crossed and ruin-strewn. These groups dispersed to surround Corypheus’s forces, like a net with small threads but a very tight weave. His mages, archers, and melee infantry worked together as well as any dwarven-made machine. Casualties were few.

The Inquisition forces converged, tightening like a noose around Corypheus’s forces. The battle ought to have ended with the Inquisition crushing Corypheus’s forces against the Temple of Mythal.

The place was too beautiful for slaughter—the temple floated in the middle of a serene lake, its still surface reflecting the glittering sunlight, the lush greenery, the savage violence of armies clashing.

Corypheus and Samson fought at the center of their dwindling army—each so tall, so distinctive, standing head and shoulders above the rest. Two obvious targets with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, in range of enemy missiles.

It ought to have been the end.

Cullen had nearly cut his way to Corypheus—if the archers and the mages couldn’t bring the hideous creature down, he’d try his own blade at the task—when he saw the strange elves. Spindly pale and viciously fast, wearing gold armor as luxurious as it was strange, they seemed to come from _within_ the abandoned temple.

 _Good_ , Cullen thought at first. _If Corypheus has enemies on both sides, this will be over all the sooner_. He wouldn’t even begrudge them the killing strike on Corypheus, so long as he got Samson.

Who, at that very moment, was croaking at his master in a voice distorted by red lyrium. “They still think to fight us, Master.”

“These are but remnants,” Corypheus intoned, arrogant enough to be calm in the midst of chaos. “They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

He was so arrogant. So calm. That kind of hubris deserved only one response and Cullen delivered it: he lunged through the final gap separating him from his quarry and he cut off Corypheus’s head in a single, mighty swing of his sword.

The blade cleaved through sinewy flesh and hardened bone. The head separated from its body, the eyes—small, brown, the most human things about him—dimmed.

 _Done_ , Cullen thought. It’s _done_.

The next thing he knew, he was on his back in the mud. His ears were ringing; his skin stung as it would have after a long day in the sun. He forced his eyes open, scrambled to a sitting position even though his very bones screamed in protest, and watched his victory turned to ash.

First the whoosh-flap of giant wings beating the air drew all eyes to the sky. The blight dragon crested the horizon, flying fast. By the time Cullen could tear his eyes away from the monster in the sky, Samson had fled out of reach. After a bit of searching, Cullen saw him—along with a whole company of Red Templars—halfway down the bridge spanning the lake, running headlong toward the doors to the Temple of Mythal.

What was going on? The dragon had come for its master, but too late. Shouldn’t Samson be taking the place of his fallen leader? He ought to rally his troops—not flee like a coward.

A corpse lying only a few feet away began to stir. It was a Gray Warden, one of Corypheus’s men by his uniform, dead of a messy wound to the gut. The body rose to its feet, awkward as a newborn, and began to transform. Skin stretched and bones crunched, reshaping the Warden into a new, revoltingly familiar form—tall and desiccated, something a more mummy than man.

Corypheus. The dead Warden had risen as _Corypheus_.

A woman’s voice brought him back to the present. Bits, the rebel mage, shouting, “Commander!” in his ear.

He shook the dizziness away, the ringing in his ears. Tried to, anyhow. Bits was in her element, bright-eyed and blood-spattered, completely undaunted. Maker bless her.

“Let us take the dragon!” Bits shouted. “We can kill it! I know we can!”

Let her drive away the threat in the air—so he could focus on threats on the ground. On Corypheus, his dwindling troops, send whoever he could spare after Samson…

Maker’s breath. Samson.

Corypheus’s mortal shell was apparently disposable; if he’d lost anything by sacrificing it, Cullen didn’t know what. But the ancient magister had certainly _gained_ something: a head start at the Temple of Mythal. 

And Cullen had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker.

“Done,” Cullen told Bits. He sent his bannermen to Ser Barris, transferring command of the field to him, and gestured for Morrigan and Solas to follow as he crossed the long, narrow bridge that spanned the lake. The two mages loped at his side, all three of them panting as they crossed the arched threshold, leaving the chaotic battle behind and entering an eerily quiet courtyard.

“At last.” Morrigan strode ahead. “Mythal’s sanctum.”

“How does he do it?” Cullen scanned for danger but saw only peace: ancient paving stones napped in moss, elegant stonework and lifelike statues. Elven craftsmanship truly knew no equal. “You saw it, didn’t you? Corypheus died. I cut off his _head_.” 

“And we saw him pass his life force to a Blighted creature,” said Morrigan. “A Gray Warden, in this case. ’Tis strange. Archdemons possess the same ability and the Grey Wardens are able to slay them—yet Corypheus they locked away. Perhaps they knew he could do this… but not how.”

“How do we kill a creature that won’t _die_?” Cullen demanded. “How do we destroy Corypheus?”

“We’re unlikely to locate the answer here, in a place the Blight has never touched,” said Solas. “Instead we seek….”

“The Well of Sorrows,” Morrigan finished.

“What’s that?” Cullen asked.

Both mages turned withering looks on him.

“Are you inviting us to theorize on the subject? If so, please take a seat.” Solas gestured to one of the stone benches scattered about the open air courtyard. “Get comfortable. I’m sure we’ll be at it for a while.”

Morrigan snickered.

“So we press ahead,” said Cullen.

Solas shrugged. “Do we? That seems rash.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes. Maker but Solas could be infuriating. And how had he remained so calm? The elf had been in the thick of battle all day but he hadn’t broken a sweat, let alone fallen prey to panic or shock. He sounded as calm as he did in his library.

Cullen scouted, counting doors and looking for footprints, veering round when he saw Morrigan and Solas chatting by a fountain bearing a plaque.

“ _Atish’all Vir Abelasan_ ,” Solas read. “Enter the path of the Well of Sorrows.”

“There is something about knowledge,” Morrigan added. “Respectful or pure. _Shiven_ , _shivennen_ … tis all I can translate.”

“What does it mean?” Cullen asked.

“The elves believed Mythal a goddess of justice,” said Morrigan. “They came here to request judgment, but could not enter the temple until _after_ they proved their worth. Supplicants would have first paid obeisance here, in the vestibule. Following their path may aid our entry to the temple proper.”

“We don’t have time for rituals.” Not if they wanted to catch up with Samson.

“I don’t think it will take long,” said Morrigan. “Just a simple custom, as familiar to ancient elves as bowing to a queen is to you or I.”

“I find it difficult to picture you curtseying to anyone,” muttered Solas.

“Have we grown so close that you can predict my manners now?” Morrigan tsked mockingly. “Nothing is lost by indulging in the occasional civilized conduct… particularly when unexpected.”

And with that, she strode carefully onto the raised flagstones around the fountain. A cloud of magic coalesced around her as she moved, white and glimmering. It vanished when she completed the circuit and, somewhere in the distance, metal grated against stone.

A gate had opened.

“This way,” said Morrigan, taking the lead with a pleased smile.

They progressed into a second, smaller courtyard—this one enclosed by a two-story arcade, the ground littered with Venatori corpses.

“The temple’s guardians have been busy,” Morrigan observed.

“But where are the killers?” Cullen wondered.

“Preparing another display of hospitality, no doubt.”

Solas seemed more interested in the architecture than the recent battle—he ignored his companions, walked with hands clasped behind his back and a wondering expression, as though he were touring a museum.

And, indeed, Cullen imagined that the world’s most dignified curators would have come running, chisels in hand, if they knew of this place. Statues of the goddess abounded, many of an armored woman with batlike wings sprouting from her arms.

“Silence has reigned here for time beyond memory,” said the elf, deeply moved.

The atmosphere turned when they reached a statue of a wolf—so huge that Cullen would have had to stand on tiptoe to touch the tip of the stone animal’s pricked ear. 

“Why would _this_ be here?” Morrigan wondered.

“Something wrong?” Solas asked, sounding especially waspish.

“This statue depicts the dread wolf, Fen’Harel,” Morrigan told Cullen in a lecturing tone—pointedly ignoring Solas. “In elven tales, he tricks their gods into sealing themselves away in the Beyond for all time.”

Cullen shrugged. He’d never paid much attention to the elven creed; it wasn’t his business.

“Perhaps I can find terms you’d understand, Commander.” Morrigan shifted her weight from one hip to the other, eyes raised heavenward in mute complaint. “Setting Fen’Harel in Mythal’s greatest sanctum is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry.”

“Blasphemous indeed,” Cullen murmured.

“Some Chantries display statues of Andraste’s betrayer Maferath,” Solas countered.

“They do,” Cullen acknowledged. “As a reminder of vigilance for the faithful.”

“This might fulfill a similar function.” Morrigan lifted one shoulder, signaling indifference more than agreement.

Solas replied in a deep, cutting tone, his usual air of scholarly objectivity gone. “For all your knowledge, Lady Morrigan, you cannot resist giving legend the weight of history. The wise do not mistake one for the other.”

“Pray tell, what meaning does our elven _expert_ sense lurking behind this?” Morrigan sneered.

“None we can discern by staring at it.”

“We should move along, then,” said Cullen. Though it made him wonder about the elves who had built—and safeguarded—this Temple from all intruders. “Do the elves in the golden armor seem at all odd to you?”

“Indeed.” Morrigan nodded. “Two things are possible. One, this is a group of Dalish separated from their brethren, cultists fanatic in their desire to keep humans away. Two, these are elves descended form the ancients, having resided here since before the fall of Arlathan. The second appears unlikely but if true? The implications are astounding.”

“Is that even possible?” Cullen wondered. 

“With magic, anything is possible,” Morrigan answered. “These guardians have kept the temple a secret for many, many years. They must kill all who enter, even the Dalish. Which begs the question: why?”

“You said this Mythal was worshipped as a goddess?”

“So one assumes,” said Morrigan. “What is a god but a being of immense power? The dread old gods were nothing more than dragons after all. They rise as archdemons and they die. Perhaps Mythal was a powerful elf, a ruler among her kind. History often plays storyteller with facts.”

“You admit lack of knowledge and yet dismiss her so readily?” Solas demanded.

“I do not _dismiss_ her,” Morrigan retorted. “I question her supposed divinity. One need not be a god to have value. Truthfully, I’m uncertain Mythal was even a single entity. The accounts are varied.”

“There are varied accounts of Mythal?” Solas said, suddenly curious.

“In most stories, Mythal rights wrongs while exercising motherly kindness. ‘Let fly your voice to myth, deliverer of justice, protector of sun and earth alike.’ Other paint her as dark, vengeful. Pray to Mythal and she would smite your enemies, leaving them in agony.”

“More Dalish tales, I assume?” said Solas. “The oldest accounts say Mythal was both of those. And neither. She was the mother, protective and fierce. That is all I will say. This is not a place to stir up old stories.”

Morrigan shrugged. “Whatever the truth all accounts of Mythal end the same: exiled to the beyond with her brethren.”

An explosion shook the building. The courtyard cracked nearly in half, a seam that widened into a fissure. Cullen glimpsed the smooth straight lines of man-made tunnels just as Samson stepped into the light. In a display of inhuman strength, Corypheus’s general leapt up to the courtyard in a single bound.

He cracked the flagstones as he landed, stone breaking under his metal-shod heel. He was huge in his armor, wearing fine-crafted silverite inset with roughly fashioned chunks of red lyrium. And yet for all his strength, all his seeming power, he looked gray, sickly, and exhausted.

“Hold them off,” Samson cried, as his Templars leapt into the courtyard after him. They unsheathed their weapons, falling into defensive stances, while Samson hurled himself back into the fissure and the network of underground caves.

The battle was short and easy. Cullen had qualms about Morrigan and Solas as individuals, but not as battlemages—they disposed of enemies quickly and efficiently.

“Come on,” called Cullen, ready to leap over the crack in the courtyard to follow Samson. “We might catch him.”

“Hold a moment,” said Morrigan, looking not at the fissure but at the doors leading deeper into the Temple proper. “We should walk the petitioner’s path, as before.

Cullen growled. “An army fights and dies for us beyond these walls. The longer we tarry, the more soldiers we lose outside. Let’s jump down and be done with this place.”

“We cannot find the Well of Sorrows unprepared,” Morrigan cautioned.

“We don’t know what’s inside the Temple,” Cullen said. “Samson might have had a reason for going another way.”

“Had they the option, they would have proceeded. That must lead to their goal.”

Solas interrupted. “Their goal or _yours_?”

Morrigan faced the elf squarely. “Legends walked Thedas once. Things of might and wonder. Their passing has left us all the lesser. Corypheus would squander the ancient power of the well. I would have it restored.”

“I wasn’t expecting your answer to be so romantic,” said Solas.

“Trust me.” Morrigan smiled faintly. “Your surprise is matched only by my own. Mankind blunders through the world. Crushing what it does not understand. Elves, dragons, magic… The list is endless. We must stem the tide or be left with nothing more than the mundane. This I know to be true.

“I read more in the first chamber than I revealed. It said a great boon is given to those who use the well of sorrows… but at a terrible price.”

“What did you read?” Cullen asked.

“Like most elven writing it was insufferably vague. The term I deciphered was “halam’shivanas’—‘the sweet sacrifice of duty’. It implies the loss of something personal for duty’s sake, yet for those who served at this temple, a worthwhile trade.”

“Why keep it a secret?” Cullen asked.

“I hoped to find more information. If I intended to cheat you, I would have feigned ignorance entirely. My priority is your cause, but if the opportunity arises to save this well, I am willing to pay the cost.”

“And gain what?”

“That is what we must discover. The rituals may point the way.”

Cullen eyed the underground tunnels. “If there’s any chance of a shortcut…”

Morrigan had no trouble with the rituals, but not sooner had she convinced the gate to open than a whole company of Temple elves emerged from the gloom.

And quickly proved the value of Morrigan’s advice, to Cullen’s disgust. The leader of the elves offered his name: Abelas. He had a deep voice for spindly man and he made them an offer: he would guide them through the Temple so long as they promised to leave the Well of Sorrows alone.

“Done,” said Cullen, offering his hand to shake.

Before Abelas could return the gesture—if he even knew what it was—Morrigan transformed into a crow and flew past them all, plunging into the darkness of the Temple. 

Cullen had a brief glimpse of Solas, his expression frozen somewhere between smug and sour, before he returned his attention to Abelas.

“I will stop her if I am able,” said Cullen. “If she does not get too far ahead.”

“Will you?” Abelas’s lips thinned. “I wonder.”

The interior of the temple was dark, tiled in green and gold, with strange mosiacs glittering on almost every wall. Cullen had visited enough elven ruins to find the courtyards familiar; but the inside of the temple, intact and opulent and foreign, made him deeply uncomfortable.

He was glad to reach the open air again, a terraced courtyard where and his men were battling more Temple elves in their attempt to reach a perfectly round, man-made pool.

The Well of Sorrows?

“Fight on!” Samson cried. “Fight on! An army of these bastards won’t stop us!

Samson slashed out at one of the golden-clad Temple elves, by way of demonstration. The other Red Templars followed his lead. For all their speed and obvious martial skill, the Temple elves couldn’t match the unnatural strength of the Red Templars.

Cullen wasn’t sure that he could, either. But, by the Maker, he would try.

“You tough bastards!” Samson trampled a dying elf as he cheered his men in their slaughter. “A day’s match, hours of fighting, and still fierce as dragons. The Chantry never knew what it was throwing away.”

“Samson, sir, watch out!” cried one of his men.

Samson whirled, avoiding the strike of Cullen’s sword by bare inches.

“Well if it isn’t the Commander himself,” sneered Samson. “You’ve got a damned long reach. We come to the backend of nowhere and here you are.”

“Whatever you attempt, we will stop you,” said Cullen, though it sounded like bluster to his own ears. “And in the end, we will defeat you.”

Samson actually laughed. “You’re in over your head.” 

“Surrender now—or die.”

“You think you’re better than me. Always did. Well, you’re not. Corypheus chose me twice. _Me_. First as his general, now as the vessel for the Well of Sorrows.”

Cullen paused. If Samson was in an informative mood, he’d take advantage of it. “What’s in the Well?”

“Wisdom,” Samson spat. “The kind of wisdom that can scour a world. I give it to Corypheus and he can walk into the fade without your precious anchor.”

“What’s your part in it?”

“What else empties a well? A _vessel_. I’ll carry it’s power to Corypheus. One more task entrusted to _me_. All that Chantry lyrium was good for something. I won’t forget a word of the well’s knowledge. Corypheus will be unstoppable.”

Cullen’s lip curled. “How can you be loyal to that _thing_? He poisoned the Order!”

Samson shrugged. “Templars have always been used. How many were left to rot after the Chantry burned away their minds? Piss on it! I followed him so Templars could at least die at their best! Same lie as the Chantry. The Prophet just isn’t as pretty.”

“Die at their best,” Cullen repeated, stunned. “ _That’s_ the future you’re fighting for? _That’s_ what you’re offering your brothers?”

“They were always going to die. I saw what Corypheus was doing, so yes, I fed them hope instead of despair. I made them believe their pain had purpose, _just like the Chantry does_. Right, Commander?”

“No.” Cullen shifted into a battle stance without conscious thought. Words weren’t enough. For years he had seen Samson as a kind of mirror, a twisted and diminished reflection of himself. All of a sudden, that resemblance was unbearable.

And though the fight wasn’t easy, Cullen never doubted his victory. Samson seemed smaller by the second, as though he were shrinking before Cullen’s eyes. No, this man wasn’t an adversary or a rival. He was just a sniveling, desperate, petty-minded rat.

And he was nothing without his armor. Cullen sheared it off, piece by piece. At some point he knew he’d left honor behind, that he was toying with Samson out of sheer spite—so that anyone who looked would see the _general_ brought low.

“You idiot,” Cullen panted, when he finally had Samson on his back. “You _fool_.”

Cullen planted his foot on Samson’s chest, felt the red lyrium throbbing and hungry beneath his heel. “You gave them _hope_?”

He shifted his grip on his sword, readying for a thrust instead of a slice. And then he told Samson what he had learned since his arrival at Haven, the wisdom that shredded Samson’s bluster as surely as Cullen had shredded his armor.

“Hope is not a cause,” he snarled, raising his blade. “Hope is an _effect_.”

And then he plunged his sword into—and through—Samson’s skull. The life ebbed from the ex-Templar’s eyes, his face, his body.

Cullen allowed himself a moment of pure, bloodthirsty satisfaction. When he looked up, he realized that the battle had shifted around him. The Red Templars were dead but the Temple elves had lined up to protect the Well of Sorrows from Morrigan, who stood opposite with her staff raised and crackling with power.

“Morrigan, enough,” snapped Cullen. “Corypheus came to pillage the Well. We will _not_ sink to his level.” 

Morrigan twisted, mouth open on an objection that would no doubt trip him up. But her gaze went right past Cullen, to something behind him, at the entrance to this final, sacred courtyard.

Cullen wheeled around and came face to face with Corypheus.

“If we can’t kill him we must run,” said Solas. “To the Eluvian!”

Cullen didn’t waste time objecting. He took a quick lunge at Morrigan, butting his shoulder into her waist and standing as she folded in half, gasping for air. She beat her fists against his back as he wrapped on arm around her legs, securing her.

Cullen looked, briefly, to Abelas.

“Defending the Well is our task,” said the elf. “We will destroy it rather than let this foul creature have it.”

Morrigan wailed and Solas, who’d pulled ahead, turned just long enough to put her to sleep with a spell.

“Is that truly your choice?” Solas asked.

Abelas nodded.

“I am sorry for it.”

Cullen edged around the pool. Solas, faster and more nimble, reached the Eluvian first. It sprang to life at his touch, the static reflection rippling like mercury.

With the witch over his shoulder, Cullen followed the elf into the mirror.

 

 


	73. tempted three times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! I totally wasn't joking! The thing is done, I have more words to post. It's crazy.

Kit was sitting on Cullen’s desk with the doors locked, pretending not to worry. She wasn’t worried because Cullen was an amazingly competent warrior and commander who’d never give the enemy a chance to hurt him (what a joke—enemies didn’t play fair and talent didn’t mean a damn thing when you were surrounded and oh Maker what if he was already dead and she just didn’t know it yet?) and also because she was a heartless mage who didn’t have feelings (even a _glance_ at her splotchy, red-eyed reflection gave away the lie, so she avoided mirrors).

Anyway, with the doors locked no one could come in and tell her she was being a pathetic sad-sack, which was about as high as her ambitions reached these days.

And the room smelled like him.

So did the sheets. Not that she ever went up there to notice. Nope. Sure didn’t.

Her hands were definitely _not_ on the ladder when the explosion hit. 

She burst out of the little windowless tower along with every other mage in Skyhold, not that many had chosen to remain—when Bits had marched to the Emerald Graves, she’d taken most of the capable combat mages with her. At least Zell and Farah, the two elves elected to the Mage Council, had stayed behind for the negotiations. She’d never seen either fight but they certainly looked competent, side by side with backs straight and staves at the ready. 

Bull and his Chargers signaled to one another from their posts around the battlements, scanning the area for threats. Cabot and Maryden emerged blinking from the tavern, other patrons crowding at their backs. Leliana peered out from the gloom of her rookery and Varric stood under the stone arches of the doors leading into the great hall.

Kit ducked back into Cullen’s tower for her staff. She returned to the battlements just as a spindly, grey-robed figure rose into the air above the herb garden.

“Wow,” said Kit. “This is bad.”

But there was no one to hear.

A few of the Chargers positioned close to the garden fired arrows and fireballs at Corypheus; he responded by blasting huge chunks out of Skyhold’s ancient walls, sending rubble flying in every direction.

A handful of mages were brave enough to respond with another volley, but they hardly seemed to scratch the floating Tevinter magister.

“Where is your Maker now?” Corypheus’s voice, huge and resonant, carried with unnatural strength all across the fortress. “Call him! Call down his wrath upon me!”

 _Ignore the chatter_ , Kit told herself. Focus on important things. _Why is he here? How do we stop him?_

_What had happened to Cullen?_

“Fuck the Maker,” she said softly, squeezing her eyes shut. If Corypheus was here, if Cullen hadn’t stopped him…. “With a hot poker. In every hole he doesn’t have because he doesn’t fucking exist.”

A guard jogging by—part of some diplomatic retinue, judging by his Tantervale uniform, and scared out of his wits—skidded to a halt to gape at her.

“You heard me,” said Kit, narrowing her eyes.

The guard scurried on. 

“You cannot!” Corypheus declared triumphantly. “For he does not exist!”

Oh look. She and the lunatic were in agreement. That was always a good sign. 

“I am Corypheus!” He punctuated this supremely obvious statement with a red-hot fireballs that took out, in turn, the tavern and the armory. “Bow down before your new god and be spared!”

“What a prat,” said Kit, since she’d finally reached The Iron Bull.

“Yup,” said The Iron Bull, though without looking at her—he split his attention between Corypheus and Krem, stationed on the opposite side of the fortress. “I’ve got the Chargers in place. If you can funnel everyone else who’s able to help through me, it’d make things easier.”

“Got it,” said Kit. “Anything else?”

“If you come up with any bright ideas let me know.”

“I’ll try,” said Kit, jogging away along the battlements to pass Bull’s request along to Zell and Farah.

They immediately agreed to put the Iron Bull in charge. Kit was about to hurry on to the Great Hall, to see if she could rustle up any support from the diplomatic envoys, when Farah said something in a peculiarly blank tone.

“Did Solas share any of his thoughts about how to defeat Corypheus?”

“Solas?” He talked about the Fade a lot, of course, and the plight of the elves, and… “Come to think of it, yes. He said to target the Orb.”

Farah blinked. “The Orb?”

“Corypheus will be easier to defeat without it, right?” Kit said, extrapolating wildly. “And we’ve got our backs against the wall, so…”

Zell and Farah exchanged a long look.

“It’s a terrible sacrifice,” Farah murmured.

“But do you see another way?” Zell replied.

Kit had the impression that she understood maybe one-tenth of this exchange, but since it was ending the way she wanted, she decided to worry about the other ninety percent later.

“The Orb,” said Kit, very firmly.

Farah and Zell nodded.

Kit continued on her circuit. She reached Krem and told him to target the Orb, knowing he’d somehow pass the information on to the Iron Bull. She arrived at the Great Hall just as Varric emerged onto the landing with his Bianca in hand and a motley assortment of overdressed, gold-epauletted and be-medaled guards at his back.

“Aim for the Orb,” said Kit, and dashed ahead, searching for a vantage point from where she join the assault.

Bull had obviously passed her instruction along but it was hard to hit a small moving target. Corypheus whirled one way and then another, less like a strategist with a goal in mind and more like a tornado, a destructive force bent on doing as much damage as possible.

Like he’d just been kicked out of a party and he was determined to piss in the punch bowl before he left.

Kit let fly a few magic missiles, but only one hit and Corypheus hardly seemed to feel the blow. So she climbed onto the roof over the kitchen and fed power into her staff, gathering energy for a stronger, more precisely aimed hit.

“ _You_!” Corypheus cried, catching sight of her. “I knew I would find you here!”

Kit froze.

"You have been most successful at foiling my plans," Corypheus intoned, floating in her direction. “But let us not forget what you are— a thief in the wrong place at the wrong time, an interloper, a gnat.”

Well, imagine that. She and Corypheus were in agreement. Again.

 _Ignore him_ , Kit told herself—though the words stung. _Don’t let him distract you_.

She twirled her staff, gauging the gathering power within it. One good blast ought to scratch him, at least. Death by a thousand cuts was still death.

Corypheus hurled a glob of lurid red magic at her. She dodged, heart leaping into her throat, leaking magic as her concentration broke.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Corypheus was grinning now, drifting ever closer—and not getting hit very often. Leliana crouched in her tower, arrow nocked in her bow, several dozen mages ranged around the fortress held staves at the ready. But no one fired.

Kit searched out the Iron Bull, who made a circling motion with his index finger, as though he were reeling in a fishing rod.

 _Wait?_ Kit wondered. _Hold on?_ And then it clicked: Bull wanted her to lure Corypheus closer. To play bait.

She had volunteered for the job before, after all. Why not do it again?

The next time Corypheus fired at her, Kit let out a wild, unhinged scream as she dodged—and then she began to fake a limp. She clutched at her side and attempted to escape from Corypheus’s range, dragging her uninjured leg behind her like a dead weight.

“It ends here, Inquisitor,” Corypheus gloated, preparing another deadly missile. He came closer, so intent on her—on _killing her_ —that he ignored the foes ranged at his back. “We shall prove once and for all which of us is worthy of godhood!”

Corypheus aimed his lethal projectile.

Bull gave the signal.

And every mage and archer of any ability loosed at once—all shooting at the Orb. 

Corypheus recoiled, his arm shredded to the elbow. He let the Orb drop and Kit dived after it, planning to smash the thing. Into a thousand pieces, if she had to, until there was nothing left for him to draw on.

But she reached for the Orb with her dominant hand, just like she had the first time. But it wasn’t just her dominant hand, anymore. It was her _Marked_ hand. Her Fade-touched hand.

She screamed at the pain. It arced through her, like lightning in reverse—reaching through her body to the wounded sky and making the tear in the Veil churn.

And Kit could feel herself balanced between two worlds, master of both, just like she had every time she'd reached for the Breach, every time she'd tried to close it and faced temptation instead.

She laughed, like a crazy person—like Corypheus at his worst—because he’d boasted about being worthy of godhood, and that was _hilarious_. Worthy had nothing to do with it. With the Orb and the Anchor, she was a god. End of. No tests or proofs of worthiness required.

But she wasn’t swept away this time. Always, in the past, she’d felt the sweet temptation of power. The dark allure of having her humanity, her essential self, burned away.

But that had been before—when grief clouded her memories and a lifetime in the Circle had taught her to be cynical, to expect the worst and hope for nothing. When she felt alone in the world, helpless and despairing and eternally angry.

Things looked different now. For good or ill, she’d made a difference. Not with magic but with tricks and lies and manipulation… and loyalty to her friends, putting herself at risk, making hard choices and fighting for what she believed in.

And she’d fallen in love. So long as there was a chance that Cullen lived, godhood held no appeal for her. None at all.

So it was easy to refuse the offer. Easy to turn the Orb on itself, to make it close the tear in the Veil and heal the wound in the sky. When she was done, when nothing remained but a greenish tint to the clouds, a scar over Haven, she felt the Orb die. A sorrow not her own pierced her so sharply that tears sprang to her eyes.

By the time she turned back to the battle, it was very nearly over. Corypheus was powerful but, as she’d guessed, without the Orb he wasn’t a one-man army. He’d come alone and he didn’t stand a chance.

It wasn’t a fair fight. Or even a dramatic one. The scales had tipped and Corypheus fell. "Not like this!" he wailed at the last, half-kneeling, one arm lifted to the sky. "Dumat! Ancient Ones! If you exist, if you ever existed, aid me now!" 

It was pathetic, really. 

Along with a few other brave souls, Kit approached the corpse. Bull, Leliana, and Nina stood with her, Krem only a few paces behind.

“Better safe than sorry,” she said.

Bull signaled his agreement by chopping off Corypheus’s head and kicking it a few feet away. Kit blasted the head with white hot fire, reducing it instantly to ash.

“Seems like a plan,” said Kit.

Bull shrugged and took his axe to to one of Corypheus’s legs. It was gruesome, but they took the magister apart piece by piece and burned each one, until nothing was left. 

It all seemed a little anti-climactic.

“What now?” asked Bull, when they were done.

Kit looked to Leliana.

“I’ll send as many ravens as I can spare,” said the spymaster, whirling gracefully and heading for her rookery without another word.

They had to find out what happened to the Inquisition army, what had happened to drive Corypheus here alone. It could have been good… or it could have been very, very bad.


	74. plotting a new course

A raven arrived from the Arbor Wilds the very next day, carrying a painfully brief message: _Victory on the field. General Samson and Blight dragon slain. Well of Sorrows destroyed and Corypheus still at large_.

Kit read the message and returned it to Leliana without a word. She didn’t recognize the handwriting but that wasn’t necessarily a bad sign; the hours after a battle were chaotic and Cullen would probably have delegated disptach duty to an underling while he focused on more important tasks.

“You might try prayer,” suggested Leliana, folding the message and sealing it with wax to be forwarded on to Josephine. “Even if you don’t believe, praying passes the time. And settles your mind.”

Kit, sitting on a stuffed armchair she’d lugged up to the rookery from the library level of the rotunda, hid a grimace. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“It would make you feel better,” Leliana added.

“So would a cookie,” said Kit. She took the folded message from Leliana and headed for the kitchen.

She’d been afraid that getting caught in the middle of a battle would derail negotiations with the Free Marches, but the opposite had been true. It had made them more accommodating.

Apparently, the Marchers had been _delighted_ to witness the Herald of Andraste’s latest heroics. Thanks to her ridiculous reputation they hadn’t been afraid. They acted as though the Inquisition had put on a really good show for their benefit.

In other words, Josephine had been working overtime. 

In the end, nine separate city states had thrown their lots in with the alliance. That gave them the Inquisition, the Free Mages of Skyhold, Ferelden, and the majority of the Free Marches. In addition, Cullen and Alistair had extracted a promise of neutrality from the dwarves at Orzammar and Josephine had hopes of luring Antiva into the accord.

She ran into the Ansburg delegation on her way out of the kitchen. Their loaded supply carts, mounted guards, and carriages full of retainers filled the courtyard, milling about and shouting at one another as they waited for the signal to ride out.

A few of the diplomats paused their preparations to approach. “It was an honor,” said one. “I look forward to working with you again,” said another.

Kit edged through the crowd until she reached Josephine, who’d been bidding each member of the delegation farewell by name.

Kit handed the ambassador a cookie, with the folded note pressed to the bottom. “And they say only mages can work magic.”

Josephine tucked the cookie into a pocket. “What news?”

“Sounds like the battle went well, with some caveats.”

Josephine nodded minutely, her courtier’s smile never faltering. “I should be able to make it to the War Room in a few hours.”

“How about dinner in my suite?” Kit suggested.

“Perfect,” said Josephine.

Kit arranged for the cook to send a meal and set the table herself. Josephine arrived on time and drank a full glass of wine before Leliana finally appeared, brandishing a curled slip of paper.

“The good news is that the Commander signed it himself,” said Leliana, offering the paper to Kit. “The bad news, however…”

Kit took the message but she didn’t read it immediately. She let the news settle, felt the claws of fear ease their grip on her psyche. The relief left her a little light-headed.

Josephine plucked the paper from her fingers. She replaced it when she was done and Kit, last of the three, uncurled the parchment and read.

 

_Corypheus is capable of resurrection. Ability may be connected to the Blight.— CSR_

 

“Does that mean we didn’t kill him?” Kit asked.

“Possibly,” said Leliana. “Archdemons can also resurrect themselves. If anyone _other_ than a Grey Warden kills an Archdemon, the Archdemon’s soul escapes unharmed to the nearest Blighted creature. That creature will then transform into a dragon. The process can repeat itself an infinite number of times, as far as I know.”

“So Corypheus might have popped back to life in a cave somewhere,” said Kit. “He could be somewhere underneath Skyhold, or in a dwarven tag somewhere?” 

“That’s the danger,” said Leliana. “I’ve already put my contacts on alert.”

“So we need to find Corypheus… again,” said Kit. “And we _also_ need to find out how to kill him?”

“I’ve already sent word to a friend who, I think, will be able to help us answer that question,” said Leliana. “I should know in a few days.”

The time passed surprisingly quickly. More and more dispatches arrived from the Arbor Wilds, slowly filling out their understanding of what happened: 

Inquisition forces had routed Corypheus’s army in the Arbor Wilds. The mage corps—under _Bits’s_ command—had killed the blight dragon. Cullen had killed Samson. And the elves who guarded the Well of Sorrows had destroyed it rather than let Corypheus—or anyone else—have it.

Corypheus’s sudden arrival in Skyhold also began to make sense. Cullen, Solas, and Morrigan had fled a confrontation with Corypheus by fleeing into an Eluvian. They’d exited almost immediately, through an adjacent portal, in order to rejoin the army as soon as possible.

As far as they could tell, Corypheus had tried to follow. He’d lost the trail because Cullen, Solas, and Morrigan had exited so quickly. Unable to track his quarry, he’d made a beeline for Skyhold.

Morrigan had fled almost as soon as she woke up. More surprisingly, so had Solas. He’d vanished without a word of farewell and without a trace.

The rest of the diplomatic delegations departed, one by one, keeping Josephine busy.

Kit continued to spend an embarrassing amount of time in Cullen’s tower. And she didn’t sleep very much. She had a nagging sense that they’d messed up, missed something obvious or wasted time chasing red herrings.

So she happened to be both conveniently located and awake to notice when a tall, slim woman—almost certainly an elf—crossed the bridge to Skyhold alone, wearing a plain hooded cloak of thick wool with a heavy staff of dull metal strapped to her back.

She stood in the central courtyard for a few minutes, turning full circle as she took in the fortress, but without drawing down her hood.

Just when Kit was starting to wonder if she ought to do something—say hello, alert the Iron Bull, something like that—Leliana emerged from the Great Hall.

The spymaster threw her arms around the elf, who returned the embrace without hesitation. The two climbed the steps back up to the hall side by side, close enough for their arms to brush as they moved, heads bent to exchange whispers.

At that point, Kit knew better than to intervene—but she was curious, so she stopped by Leliana’s rookery early the next morning. The spymaster was alone, serene and alert as ever.

“Any news?” Kit asked, trying to hide her disappointment.

“I was just about to send a message,” said Leliana. “Find Josephine and meet me in the War Room, as soon as possible.”

Huh.

But Kit did as she was told. She found Josephine scribbling away at her desk, a cup of fragrant tea steaming at her elbow.

“Leliana has news,” said Kit. “Do you know what this is about?”

“Me?” Josephine shook her head. “No.”

“She had a visitor late last night,” said Kit. “An elf.”

“One of her spies?” Josephine stood and edged around her desk, taking her clipboard in one hand and her tea in the other. “Is she coming?”

Kit nodded.

“Then we’ll find out what this is about soon enough.”

They opened up the War Room and fussed with the table for a few minutes, matching the markers to their most recent dispatches, until Leliana herself arrived.

“I think I can explain what happened to Corypheus,” she said, shutting the heavy wooden doors behind her.

“You can?” Kit asked. They’d been clueless the day before.

“Corypheus was not an Archdemon,” said Leliana. “But he did find a way to imitate one. He split his soul and safeguarded a portion of it—perhaps the majority of it—inside the Blight Dragon. Whenever his human body died, he’d shave off a new sliver of soul and send it to a new one, using the connection that all Blighted creatures share.”

“So if we killed the dragon…” Kit said.

“Then we have killed Corypheus in truth,” said Leliana. “What’s more, the dragon seems to have died _while Corypheus was inside the Eluvian_. He was… in another world, another dimension. It’s entirely possible he didn’t sense the dragon’s death and that he came to Skyhold without realizing that he’d been made mortal.”

“Until it was too late,” said Kit.

“Until it was too late,” Leliana echoed.

“So that’s it?” said Kit. “We’re in the clear?”

“We should follow up on this information,” interrupted Josephine. “It would be irresponsible to place too much faith in a theory…”

“Normally I would agree,” said Leliana. “But this came straight from Neria Surana.”

Kit straightened. “The Hero of Ferelden?”

“There is only one Neria Surana,” said Leliana, a little wryly.

The solitary elf. Traveling alone, plainly dressed, with her hood up—unafraid to hug Leliana. That had been her!

Kit blinked. “Is she still here?”

“No,” said Leliana. “I’m surprised she came at all. She seemed preoccupied. Whatever is on her mind, she appears to think it’s more important than Corypheus.”

Kit swallowed. “More important than Corypheus?”

“And if that isn’t enough to ruin your day,” said Josephine, “we’ve received our first official correspondence from the new Divine.”

Josephine tossed a folded piece of parchment onto the War Table. She’d had to break through at least three wax seals to open it, with several more intact, bearing ribbons or pressed seals. The letter was brief, written in brilliant gold ink, and bore the signature of Divine Victoria.

“She’s convened an Exalted Council,” said Josephine. “Representatives from all the Andrastean nations of Thedas have been invited. The goal will be to determine the future of the Inquisition.”

“At Halamshiral,” Leliana murmured. “I wonder who approved that.”

“I question the timing,” said Josephine. “It’s true that, if they act now, they could pretend we declared the Inquisition in response to Corypheus.”

“And that we should end with Corypheus, as well,” Leliana agreed. “But still. To set themselves against us when we’ve never been stronger? We’ll arrive with plenty of goodwill and strong alliances around Thedas.”

“Maybe they know something we don’t,” said Kit.

“I doubt it. The Chantry is building a new spy network from scratch, but it’s small and”—Leliana coughed delicately—“badly compromised.”

“More likely they are desperate,” said Josephine. “If they give us time, we’ll continue to consolidate our power. We’re as weak now as we’re likely to be for some time. Defeating Corypheus improved our reputation, but it was a costly war and we haven’t won any lands or tribute.”

“So what do we do?” Kit asked.

“We go, of course,” said Leliana. “This is where the real work begins. With Corypheus gone, we can finally focus on the Chantry. What our guiding principles ought to be and how better to execute on them.”

Kit was listening but she’d positioned herself by the window and kept an eye on it as they talked. What she’d initially taken to be the glitter of sunlight on the snowy mountains had just resolved itself into the glitter of sunlight on metal—on armor, specifically, on sharp spear tips and halberds.

On the banner of the Inquisition, soot-stained and smudged but flying high.

“They’re here,” she squawked, and dashed out of the room without another word.

Being the Inquisitor came in handy for once, because it justified her presence. She led cheers, she waved, she offered congratulations. She shot magical fireworks into the sky to explode gracefully overhead.

Mostly, she was glad to see Cullen riding at the head of the line—unharmed, head held high. He stopped at the gate and turned to his own troops, shaking the hand of every officer and soldier who followed in his wake, sounding the hurrahs as soldiers who’d distinguished themselves in the recent battle passed through.

The kitchen staff soon appeared with tankards of ale to pass around, while others set up long trestle tables and Josephine bustled around them, organizing the placement of food as it began to trickle out.

When Bits reached the end of the bridge, her mages lifted her onto her shoulders and carried her through the gates, shouting, “Make way for Belinda the Dragon-Slayer!”

Kit blinked back tears. She hadn’t spoken to Bits since that awful moment in the Great Hall after Vivienne’s trial, but she was so, so happy for her friend.

She held back, wanting Cullen to have the time to savor his victory, knowing how important it would be to the rank-and-file to see their Commander among them, celebrating with them. But eventually, well after dark, when eerie magelights bobbed above the courtyard to illuminate the continuing revelry, Cullen began to look as exhausted as he must have actually been.

She sauntered over, bumped her hip into his and said, “Hey, handsome. You look familiar. Have we met?”

He turned at her voice and, without a word, lifted her into his arms and kissed her soundly. Quite a bit of cheering—and jeering—rose up around them, but Kit didn’t care.

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

“I was so scared,” she whispered, huddling close, breathing in his scent. Sweat, oil, horse, wind, dust. The whole day’s history, written on his skin.

“I’m fine,” he said, laughing a little.

“And you’re done here.” She scrambled out of his arms and tugged him into the fortress, up to her room where she could bolt the door from the inside.

There was so much to talk about. News to exchange, impressions to share. But Kit figured it could all wait and, for one, Cullen was ahead of her—tearing at her shirt, fumbling with her trousers, herding her onto the bed, where she’d already been desperate to go.

Their reunion was fevered and hasty. And then it was energetic and satisfying. And after that, leisurely and sweet. They fell asleep before they could manage a fourth round, heavy limbs in a tangle.

It wasn’t until breakfast the next morning that they finally had a chance to talk. They ate together at a small table on the balcony overlooking Skyhold, reduced by Corypheus to a state almost as bad as it had been before the Inquisition arrived.

But the sky blushed in all the colors of a lady’s underwear drawer, a thousand shades of pink and cream, and the cool air felt good after a sweaty morning.

Kit told Cullen about the Exalted Council and then she told him something else. Something that she’d been thinking, and afraid to say, ever since Leliana and Josephine began to plot out a new course for the Inquisition.

“I’m going to quit.”

Cullen, slouching and loose-limbed on a wrought-iron chair, his mouth curled into a lazy smile and his eyes low-lidded, froze with a piece of cruller halfway to his mouth.

“You can’t quit,” he said. “You’re the Inquisitor.”

Kit shrugged.

“Why? What are we supposed to do without you?” His expression went blank and he straightened, suddenly stiff and proper. “You’re going to rejoin the mages, aren’t you?”

“Anything’s possible.” Kit let her gaze wander along the jagged horizon. “I wish Leliana the best, I guess, and Josephine, and you should do what you think is right. But I’m not here for the Chantry.”

“What I think is _right_?” Cullen repeated icily.

“Yeah.” Kit looked up, startled by the trace of contempt in his voice, and was surprised to see it mirrored in his expression—stiff and narrow eyed, his upper lip curled. “Why is that bad?”

He took a few slow, controlled breaths. “You said you weren’t going anywhere. I took that to mean that you wouldn’t leave me at the nearest opportunity.”

“I’m not leaving you. Are you kidding?” Then, because it had been on her mind, she added, “But I am afraid that _you’ll_ leave _me_.”

Cullen blinked.

“You’re the head of the Templars,” said Kit. “And that’s been fine so far, because the whole world went to shit. Nobody had time to worry about the fact that a guy who left the Order and took up with a woman was in charge of a bunch of _holy knights_. But once Leliana and Josephine go toe-to-toe with the Chantry, it’ll be an issue.”

Cullen let out a long, slow breath. “You’re right.”

“So.” Kit spread her hands. “I’m quitting. I have some ideas about what I could do next. I’d rather not stay in Skyhold; thanks to Vivienne, all the mages hate me—”

“You could bring them around,” Cullen said, with flattering but naive confidence.

“And if you’re here, I’d be willing to try,” said Kit. “But, just to be clear, I mean that you’re here because you’ve found a way to keep doing work that you care about and for some reason it doesn’t require you to be celibate.”

“Kit.” Cullen reached across the table and took both of her hands, squeezing them between both of his own. “I love you. I’m not leaving you.”

“That’s what I’d prefer.” She leaned closer and pressed her cheek against his. “But think about it. If there’s no other way, I’ll understand.”


	75. you don't have to go home but you can't stay here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I ended up rewriting this. I'd started out with a rushed run-through of the Exalted Council but I like this a little better; it makes more sense and catches a more intimate & meaningful moment. It's a little fluffy, but that's how endings should be. 
> 
> There's one more chapter to go & I actually wrote it... maybe a year ago? Something like that. And there's not much to change.

Kit made her announcement at the next War Table meeting. By that time, she and Cullen had talked through all the angles, made plans. She’d lost what little doubt had once dogged her about the decision.

She thought that, on the whole, she had done more good than harm since the day she’d tumbled out of the Fade. For the mages, of course. That had always been her first priority. But for the Inquisition, too. At Haven, at Adamant, at Halamshiral, she’d given her all and it had made a difference.

But the balance would tip. She’d fit amongst these Chantry die-hards during a time of chaos and upheaval. As things settled down, that would change. She’d be more liability than asset.

She’d learned to admire Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen. If she stayed long enough, the tentative friendship they'd established would founder and the sense of camaraderie which—though she would never say it aloud—she’d come to cherish would go sour. They'd all remember that they were enemies.

“I have something for you,” said Kit, setting two wrapped presents on the map table. She nudged the first one toward Josephine.

Josephine carefully peeled the gold-and-red patterned paper away from the box and removed the lid. She lifted the new writing board that Kit had made, with a slate made of lightweight dragonbone and a candle-sized pillar of dawnstone attached to the top left hand corner, holding up a small crystal ball that glowed with pure white fire.

“I thought you might appreciate the improvement,” said Kit. “The light’s steadier than a candle and you won’t need to worry about a stray breeze blowing it out, or letting wax drip over your documents.”

Josephine caressed the bone, turned it over and gasped audibly at the back, which Kit had carved with flowers, leaves and branches and a curious bird peeping out from the foliage.

“It’s beautiful,” said Josephine. “Kit, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“The light will burn down over time—it should take a few weeks—but any mage can renew it for you. It’s a simple spell.”

“My turn!” Leliana reached for her box, smiling girlishly. “I love presents.”

Kit had made a pair of slippers for Leliana. The upper portion glittered with cloth of gold and a whole rainbow of jewels. The bottoms were soft leather, durable enough to last through a few wearings and soft enough to allow the wearer to move very, very silently across most surfaces.

Leliana turned the shoes over in her hands, first admiring the glitter and then the soles. “You have outdone yourself.”

“Now that I’ve sweetened you up a bit… I’ve got something important to tell you.” Kit smiled wryly. “I’m leaving the Inquisition.”

Josephine and Leliana exchanged a long, speaking look. Neither seemed surprised. 

“We will be forced out of Skyhold," said Leliana. She was calm, ready with her objection.

“Which is why I’ll wait until you’ve found a new home before I step down publicly,” said Kit. “The mages need this place—more than you do. Skyhold is too remote for the Inquisition but it’s perfect for mages, because we don’t have to worry about hostile locals here. It’s defensible. None of us want to see the inside of a Circle ever again, but we need a safe space.” 

"A month, maybe two," said Josephine, clipping a sheet of paper into her new board and jotting down notes. "We'll manage."

“While we’re on the subject,” interjected Cullen. “I’ll be stepping down as well.”

This time, Kit got the angry looks she’d half-expected before. It was fine if _she_ left, but if she took the Commander with her... 

“I won’t deny that Kit played some part in my decision,” Cullen said wryly, “But not as much as you think. I’m leaving because, with the war over, I’ll be able to contribute more in a different role. If you’ll allow me to explain?”

“Of course,” said Leliana. “We will always hear you out.”

“Working with both of you has been the honor of my life,” said Cullen. “I felt, for the first time in more years than I care to remember, that I was fighting for what was right, for the Chantry I always believed in but so rarely saw.

“And I’m proud of what we accomplished. The victories, the ones that history books will remember—and there were a few—but of us, as well. We were humbled, but we didn’t lose faith. We were challenged and because we chose to bend, we did not break.”

Both Josephine and Leliana nodded. Kit listened, more interested—more affected—than she had expected. They’d been on the same journey, but it had been so different for both of them, meant different things and taught different lessons.

“If you ever need me, you have only to call. I will always rally to your side,” he continued. “When I joined, my hope was that the Inquisition would chart a better future for the Templars. We’ve already made progress. We’ve given Templars more choices and, I hope, changed the nature of the Templar’s duties for the better. But we have yet to speak of the Templar’s addiction to lyrium.”

“If there’s something we can do…” said Leliana.

“There’s something _I_ can do,” said Cullen. “I assume that both of you know that I stopped taking lyrium when I left the Templar Order. I know of few others who have attempted to quit and, of those, none were successful. My own future success is hardly guaranteed; my resolve is tested every day.”

“Is this true?” Josephine murmured.

Leliana nodded.

“Cullen, I am astonished,” said Josephine. “You have done something wonderful.”

“No, but I will,” he said. “I plan to open a retreat for other Templars who’d like to quit lyrium. My hope is that, in time, we’ll establish a method that can be defined, repeated, recommended to others. I’d like to give my former brothers an alternative to the madness that takes us as we age.”

“Cullen, this is it,” said Leliana. “This is the missing piece. It’s exactly what we need…”

“To establish ourselves on new footing,” Josephine finished, diplomatically.

“To seize the moral high ground from Cassandra and Vivienne, you mean,” said Kit, less diplomatically.

Josephine caught her eye. "Divine Victoria, now. And Grand Enchanter Vivienne."

“Grand Enchanter?” Kit echoed.

“Oh, yes.” Josephine nodded. “She’s re-opened the White Spire and the mages who’ve flocked to her there are appropriately grateful.”

Kit shuddered.

“Ser Delrin Barris will replace me,” continued Cullen, refusing to be distracted. “He’ll accompany you to the Exalted Council. Let the world meet the new head of the Templars; his good character will show them, better than any words could, how we are changing.”

“I think that, for now, we should keep these changes secret,” said Leliana. “Our new Divine and the Grand Enchanter have prepared quite a case against us. They're ready to paint us as out-of-control warmongers led by a heretic. Let them continue to hone those attacks. Let them feel that they've set a trap for us. We'll demolish all their plans the moment we arrive, wearing an entirely new guise." 

Kit snickered. She'd be glad to leave the Game behind... but if, by leaving, she could make one last, devastating move? It wasn't a bad way to wave goodbye to life as a public figure. 

“So,” said Josephine. “I believe we all have a great deal to do.”

“To work,” murmured Cullen, his familiar words calling the meeting to a close.

 

***

 

She left with so much more than she’d had when she arrived. A horse, for one, gifted from the Inquisition stables. Two mules to pull the cart containing all the _stuff_ she and Cullen had accumulated since they’d arrived at Skyhold—including the gold-leaf furniture from her tower suite, wrapped in quilted padding and stacked on top of the padlocked trunks. Cullen had packed away his armor, all of it, at the very bottom.

They were ready to ride out when Josephine gathered everyone, for one last time, in the Great Hall. She and Leliana were dressed for court while Kit and Cullen wore heavy winter clothes, with hoods to hide their faces, to throw off any spies watching Skyhold.

Josephine took Kit’s two hands into her own and said, bluntly, “It’s for the best that you’re leaving.”

Kit blinked. Not that she disagreed, but…

“I have two gifts for you and that’s the first. Honesty. You’ve earned it. If you ever need my advice or counsel, you have only to ask. I will answer truthfully and to the best of my abilities.”

Kit hugged Josephine. “Thank you. I can’t imagine anything more valuable.”

Josephine allowed the embrace and brandished a sealed envelope. “This is my other gift—a more traditional one, you’ll be glad to hear. It’s a letter of introduction to my aunt. The Montilyets trade out of Denerim occasionally. Whatever it is you end up making, present this letter to their agent in Denerim and she’ll see you. I can’t promise she’ll buy—she has her own mind—but she’ll treat you like a friend.”

Kit took the letter. “Thank you, Josephine.”

Josephine kissed Kit on the cheek and then Cullen pulled her away, for his own goodbye. Leliana took her place.

“Show me your wrist,” said Leliana.

Kit hesitated.

“Come now,” Leliana teased. “After all we’ve been through, you can trust me that far.”

Kit groaned and did as she’d been bid.

Leliana tied a bracelet around Kit’s wrist, a string of faceted purple beads on a translucent white string.

“It’s not religious, is it?”

“Technically, yes,” said Leliana. “They’re favors.”

“Favors?” Kit asked.

“That’s right. If you ever have need, you can exchange one of these beads with any of my people. They won’t ask why; they’ll simply do as you ask.”

“Oh.” Kit flipped her wrist back and forth, counting. There were twenty-one beads on the bracelet. “Wow.”

“You won’t need a bead to ask me for a favor, but I’m not always near to hand.” Leliana folded both her hands around Kit’s. “I know that you don’t believe, but you’ve helped me to renew my faith. I can’t imagine a greater gift and I am grateful.”

Kit bit her tongue. Hard.

Leliana laughed softly. “I’m sorry, but I had to say it. I think the two of us have a great deal in common. Too much, perhaps, and not our best qualities. I’ve often thought, these last years, about leaving court and politics, but I’ve been too afraid. I’m not sure I could really commit to it, or if I’d really be happy. So let me know how you are, from time to time. You may inspire me yet again.”

“I will,” Kit promised. “I will.”

Leliana and Josephine walked them outside then remained by the doors to the Great Hall, watching side by side as Cullen took the reins to the team of horses from Dennet and climbed onto the bench. Kit sat beside him and he clicked his tongue, urging the beasts to move.

And so they passed through the gates of Skyhold for the last time. The cold hit them as they reached the bridge, the thin air and icy breezes of the mountains staved off by the strange magic of the fortress.

Kit tried to turn around and look back but she couldn’t see over the pile of luggage, couldn’t risk leaning out of the cart and falling on the narrow bridge.

She tucked herself a little closer to Cullen’s side and cast a warming spell, spreading it over them both. They didn’t know exactly where they were going. Eastwards, that was certain, into Ferelden. Someplace peaceful but not too remote; Cullen had saved up enough to buy a farm, though they’d put the land to a slightly different use.

She wasn’t the Inquisitor anymore. She wasn’t anyone. Just a citizen, a free mage, migrating to Ferelden and hoping to build a better life for herself.


	76. Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford

They chose a manor house not far from Denerim, the ancestral home of some Bann or other that had been deserted since the Blight. The surrounding land was no good for farming and wouldn’t be for some time, but it was big enough and it overlooked a lake. Cullen tucked away the thought that, if he and Kit ever had children, they’d grow up playing by the water.

Years of neglect had left the manor worse for wear, so they rolled up their sleeves and set to work. He climbed up to the roof to replace slate shingles while Kit installed new windows. He replaced the rotting hardwood floors on the upper stories, lining up long narrow oaken boards and hammering them into place, while Kit constructed elaborate, enchanted lamps and chandeliers.

They bought chickens and built a coop.

By the time the first Templar arrived, a Ferelden named Ser Gormond, the place almost looked livable. A half-dozen more arrived in quick succession after that.

Of those seven, only two made it through their first week without resorting to a dose. They all arrived with secret stashes of lyrium, secreted away in a sock or a bottle of aftershave. He could feel it call to him when he walked by their rooms.

Kit set up a workshop in the old barn and disappeared into it for whole days, emerging at sunset to eat one of the hearty meals their new cook had spent the day preparing. And Cullen was so busy that it took him a while to realize that, as the days passed, she spent more and more time shut up in the barn and spoke less and less about what she was working on.

And so, one morning during the hours he usually spent with his Templars working on swordplay and physical conditioning—he strongly believed that rigorous and intense physical exertion was one of the keys to his own success—he slipped quietly inside of her workshop, without knocking or announcing himself.

He found Kit curled up on a low bench, one hand gripped tightly about the wrist of her Marked hand, gritting her teeth with tears streaking down her cheeks while the Anchor pulsed and strobed, throwing wild green light against the walls and ceiling.

“Kit.” He knelt beside her. “What’s happening? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked at him with wide eyes full of pain and, in a pause between the spasms, said, “I think the arm needs to come off.”

“No.” He shook her. “Don’t talk like that. It’s been fine for so long—we’ll find a way.”

It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She squeezed her eyes shut and let her head dip forward, chin to her chest, as the Mark began again to flash.

***

He refused the second time she asked him to cut his arm off. And the third. And every time after that, too. He wished she would stop talking about it. He was not going to mutilate the woman he loved.

“I’m not asking to be cruel,” she explained. “You’re a good swordsman. Your aim is true. You’re not scared of the Mark and you care enough to do it right.”

“You’re not going to lose the arm,” he told her. 

She didn’t believe him, but she’d always been a pessimist. He searched high and low, looking for someone who might be able to help her. If not to cure her, at least to manage the pain.

As it was, when it got really bad he had to call one of the Templars from the halfway house to Silence her. Only the new arrivals had enough residual lyrium in their veins to manage the spell and they were always frightened of Kit. No matter how many times he warned them, they’d spell her harder than they needed to.

And Kit, already hunched against the pain, clutching the wrist of her Marked hand and trying to contain her wails, would scream and collapse and have to be carried unconscious to their bed.

He hated seeing her in pain. He hated adding to it, hated when she wept in her sleep after she’d been Silenced. He’d wondered if she’d escaped Ostwick unscathed, but now he knew the answer: she hadn’t. He didn’t ask and she didn’t tell him what had happened, but that _weeping_.

It made him want to tear the world apart, brick by brick.

But only Silence spells could stop the flares of Fade energy, so the cycle kept repeating.

Leliana sent word via courier that something strange had happened at the Exalted Council—a murder in the palace, strange goings-on with the elves, intrique with the Qunari. She wanted Cullen and Kit to join them in Orlais, to help them ferret out the danger.

Cullen didn’t think twice before sending the courier away. He wouldn’t let Kit anywhere _near_ the den of vipers at Halamshiral in her condition.

When he remembered Dagna, he wrote and begged her to come. He offered any payment he could muster, anything she could name. If she wanted more than he could afford, he would not have hesitated to petition Alistair.

But Dagna wrote back to say that she remembered him from Kinloch Hold, that he’d been kind to her, that she wouldn’t charge him when the opportunity to examine the Mark would itself be priceless.

He tried explaining Dagna to Kit. “She’s an arcanist,” he said, though he was fairly sure Dagna had invented the word and it would be meaningless to anyone who had not learned it from her. “Brilliant,” he said. “A prodigy.”

“She’s a _dwarf_ ,” Kit scoffed.

“Which gives her a unique point of view,” he’d insisted. “Just give her a chance. She’ll be here soon.”

And yet, three days later, he walked into Kit’s workshop to find her putting the finishing touches on a two-foot-tall guillotine.

The blood rushed out of his head so fast he’d grabbed hold of the doorway, afraid he’d fall over.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“What does it look like?” she answered, settling a leg of lamb into the guillotine’s cradle and releasing the winch that held the blade up. It slammed down, chopping the leg of lamb neatly in two.

“It looks like you’re giving up,” he snarled. “There are options. Avenues we haven’t explored. You’re not going to lose the arm.”

“It’s my body,” she’d replied. “And my decision.”

Cullen smashed his fist into the wooden armature of the guillotine. It cracked and toppled, and he stepped on it with a steel-shod foot, to finish the job. “Sometimes, you don’t know what’s good for yourself.”

He kept a closer eye on her after that, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling whenever she stepped out of view. He hovered when she went to the privy. He felt beastly but couldn’t stop himself—in this case, Kit could not be trusted.

He knew he’d failed when he heard her scream.

He ran toward the sound and found Kit clutching at her arm, ending in a stump. There was nothing to do but react, to stanch the blood flow and try to ease her pain.

“Why?” he shouted, beside himself. “Why?”

Kit fainted.

It was only later that he saw the discarded sword—one of his own. She’d used magic to raise it into the air, magic to swing it with enough force to sever flesh and bone.

He was so angry he couldn’t speak to her and it was almost two days before the anger faded. He returned home and found Kit in bed, the arm that had once borne the Mark swaddled in bandages. She looked tired and wan, but also… better.

And then _he_ felt like a beast.

Dagna arrived. Without an active Mark to examine she charged for her services, and handsomely, but between her expertise and Kit’s, they managed to fashion a prosthetic hand that worked reasonably well.

Somehow, Dagna never never got around to leaving. She and Kit produced another hand for a maimed mage and, working together, soon after made one that could attach to a mundane human and still function.

From there the expanded to other specialty work. Arcane devices, magical puzzles. Princes and Teyrns wrote to them for advice, expertise. They traveled together, returning from jobs bright-eyed and full of chatter he didn’t understand. They were an oddly compatible pair. Dagna was so doggedly optimistic that Kit's sarcasm bounced right off of her, like water against oil. Kit, for her part, had infinite patience for Dagna's tangents and shared her passion for minutae. 

A steady stream of Templars arrived seeking Cullen’s help—to his distress, fewer departed. Not many managed to quit the lyrium that had chained them for so long.

It might have seemed like a quiet life, a well-earned retirement. The man who had once commanded an army greeted tired Templars at the door with a familiar salute and welcomed them inside. Instead of worrying about supply chains he fussed over their meals, their exercise, their sleep.

He planted an orchard and could often be seen among the trees when the sun wasn’t too hot, wielding a pair of pruning shears.

But the manor house had a rookery. Anyone who counted the arrival and departure of ravens from the farmstead would have suspected, correctly, that Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford (married in a simple ceremoy, thanks to a special dispensation from Alistair--in at least this one instance, Cullen was not above taking advantage of his personal connection to the King) were not the simple country folk they sometimes appeared to be.

And the halfway house was in the country, yes, where cocks crowed in the morning and cows lowed in the afternoon, but very near the main highway to Denerim. Only a single hard day’s ride from the capital of Ferelden—and city dwellers could tell anyone who asked that hardly anyone visited the Palace more often than Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford.

And good thing, too. Tensions across Thedas kept rising. And while the Free Mages of Skyhold battled for prominence with the revived Circle at Val Royaux, while the Inquisition quietly dueled with the Chantry, more sinister forces were at work.

Thedas would need its heroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Thanks for reading everyone. Thanks to the whole Dragon Age team for making a world that's so fun to play in, with such satisfying and strong conflicts, with such wonderful characters. 
> 
> A little aside from me-- 
> 
> I got a LOT of criticism about my treatment of Vivienne, in particular making her into a villain, making her look like a fool, misrepresenting her character by having her use Philip as a pawn. This stuck with me, as most criticism does, longer and more persistently than any of the praise. I went back over my own work over and over again, wondering how I'd messed up. Because I knew I'd messed up.
> 
> This is the conclusion I've reached. I'm putting it out there because the comments are still live... and because it's the thing that has affected *me* most during the writing of ENEMIES TO LOVERS. 
> 
> If I'm wrong, feel free to tell me so. 
> 
> First off, I am happy with the arc I gave Vivienne. I don't think that a woman gets to the top of the Circle, or becomes a master of the Game with the sobriquet "Iron Lady", without being ruthless--and occasionally cruel. (This is the lesson of Josephine's personal story, after all; she quits the Game because it cannot be played humanely.)
> 
> I get angry at fics where Vivienne is reduced to a clothes horse, as though she's frivolous or excessively superficial. She's not. She's focused and disciplined and high-achieving. She has a LOT of in game dialogue about her political stance re: the Circle and hardly any about the cut of her clothes. 
> 
> All of that sounds like a defense... because it is. I made a really huge mistake. But (as best as I can tell) the mistake wasn't what I *did* write but what I *didn't*. I didn't show Vivienne in quiet moments, being funny or friendly or casual, relating to the people she likes and respects. And I could have--Cullen would have had access to that side of her, even if Kit didn't. 
> 
> I have two companions leave the Inquisition: Cassandra and Vivienne. I realized *as I wrote* that Cassandra would never reconcile herself to Kit and so I think her arc works better because of that. It's got more of those human moments. Kit learns to appreciate what's amazing about Cassandra even though their relationship goes nowhere and ends badly. 
> 
> With Vivienne, she was a pro-Circle mage and I didn't think that anything (least of all someone like Kit) would change her mind. So I started them out as enemies and let things get worse. I should have given her character EXTRA care and attention--I'm a non-POC writing a POC--but instead I dropped the ball and readers were right to be offended.
> 
> I'm grateful for the criticism. Despite all the lost sleep, I needed to hear it and I tried to listen and get better, even over the course of this one story. I'll keep trying.
> 
> As a final little aside, this whole story started because I wished that we had the opportunity to play as a rebel mage. One who stuck to her guns and refused to make nice with the Chantry. I really didn't know where I'd end up when I started. I guess that I've concluded, over the course of writing this, that an uncompromising rebel would do more good AND more harm.
> 
> The canon Inquisition path ends in a more moderate place--which sounds about right. Less gained, but fewer enemies fired up in energetic opposition. I think I appreciate the canon conclusion more now, at the end of this story, than I did at the time. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading. Fingers crossed that Dragon Age 4 is coming and it will be awesome, so we can all play with some new toys in our favorite playground.


End file.
